Within You (Without You)
by 1lostone
Summary: This story was posted on Ao3 on 2/20/13. It wasn't fair to say that Sherlock never miscalculated. As often as he might wish otherwise, Sherlock was, after all, only human. As John would say, 'on the "rare" occasions when Sherlock bollocksed something up, he really bollocksed something up.' This was most definitely one of those times.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: First of all, I haven't posted fic to in ages. The format still makes me want to bite something. Second, there are a metric fuckton of warnings for this story.  
**

Warnings/ A/N: First off, while I promise that there is no rape or major character death in this fic, at this time I am only warning for things that I think might cause an issue. On the last story I wrote I was attacked for not warning for every single act that could be considered triggery. I am not sure what triggers people. I'm not a psychologist. However, I do not want anyone upset by reading a silly little fic, so while I do not claim to be able to warn for everything, I will try my best to list off the things that I will most likely use. So... without further ado:

Post R-falls fic. I LOVE THIS TROPE OKAY. Suicidal attempt of depressed character, PTSD, mild torture and gore, descriptions of panic attacks, drug use, and descriptions of claustrophobia, voyeurism, hurt/comfort, jealousy, unsafe sex, a metric fuckton of angst (hellooo! we must not have met before if you need me to warn for that, lol), pining, and miscommunication (love that). I am heavily inspired by a old episode of CSI, but other than that I don't want to attempt to warn for plotty things...simply because they're not written yet. I don't know what I am going to need to warn for! If you are triggered by violent acts, psychological mind fuckery, or general creepiness of bad guys, then you might want to wait until this is finished, or even give this fic a miss altogether.

*While I have your attention, I'm doing the best I can with the dates. A few websites (and some friends on tumblr) have said that Sherlock jumped on 12 June, 2012. Some other people have posted that it's clearly the 16th because of John's blog. :D I'm not British. I can't even talk with the accent. I'm writing this based on years and years of Harry Potter fic and the ability to quote every Fry and Laurie gag ever done since the dawn of time, so sorry if any Americanisms have wormed their way into this story.

As always, thanks for commenting and the concrit, either here tumblr, or twitter!

* * *

**-Before-**

[Text received: 12 June, 2012, 11:34 am]  
**-This course of action is unwise. I don't believe you've considered all the ramifications.**

[[Text received: 12 June, 2012, 11:40 am]  
**-Sherlock.**

[Text received: 12 June, 2012, 11:45 am]  
**-Too late. Be ready, Mycroft.- SH**

[Text received: 12 June, 2012, 11:45 am]  
**-Naturally.**

*******  
I clutched my tea, more than aware that my long fingers were shaking just slightly enough that the sweet, dark liquid moved in its china prison, shuddering against the edges of the cup. At any other given moment, the fact that my attention was focused upon on one detail would not have surprised any of the few acquaintances that knew me. Even the small fleck of blood caught near the second-to-last finger on my left hand wasn't particularly new. Yet my mind was a whirling dervish of blankness; a state completely foreign to me.

I knew that Mycroft would have already noticed, calculated, and dismissed my reaction. Soon would come the gloating, or worse. Mild disappointment. Predictable.

Boring.

It took the space of several heartbeats before I could move to set down the cup, reaching towards the table where my mobile sat, looking, as John would say, 'rather the worse for wear,' ready to text him with my observation. I knew that John would find it amusing. The smirk of John's lips whenever I mentioned my older, endlessly interfering brother never failed to produce an equally amused expression on my own lips. My fingertips trembled on the Blackberry case before I froze, breath catching painfully in my throat. The screen was still cracked from where I had tossed it near Moriarty's body.

"Interesting."

Mycroft's snide remark caused my already tense muscles to bunch further. The teacup clicked as I set it down, careful to keep my movements lazily serene, attempting to hide the agonizing clench of...

Well. Had I use for any descriptor that leaned towards the figurative, I would say it was my heart that clenched when the fact that I could no longer text John became brutally apparent to me. That was more John's area.

As of two hours and forty-three minutes ago, Molly had confirmed that I was now dead.

It would have been customary of me to just glare my frustration at Mycroft, but as I was fully aware that I was not, in fact, currently successful at hiding any of my reactions the effort seemed too much work.

"I believe that you are fully aware of my... reservations of this scheme of yours, Sherlock."

I jumped up, suddenly suffused with energy. "It is much too late for you to tell me 'I told you so.' Really, I would think that you'd got that out of your system by now." My mind was still frozen, numb with the enormity of my actions. I could still hear the break in John's voice-

_"No. No, he's my friend. He's my friend, _please_."_

My hands curled into fists.

"If your contact driving the lorry had been even the slightest bit late..."

I huffed out an annoyed breath. "Yes. Yes, I am aware. The rumours of my death would have not been nearly as exaggerated. Really, I would prefer that we end with this ridiculous conversation." The abrasiveness of needing to converse with Mycroft instead of our usual method of either text or deducing entire conversations with a few glances weighed on me. Even more infuriating was the fact that Mycroft was several steps ahead of me, having already decided that in this... altered... state my brain would be no match for his. He was compensating for my weakness.

I turned, gaze jumping from the rush of pulse in Mycroft's throat, to the way his umbrella was nowhere in evidence. His umbrella. Why wasn't it here? The scuff mark on his otherwise immaculate shoe, the two pulled threads on the fine material of his trousers fairly screamed the answer, now that my hard drive was slowly coming back online again.

Of course. He'd been texting. Intent on an eye-witness account of what I had done. The lorry driver's answer had caused Mycroft to stumble on the kerb, a move so completely out of character that his assistant hadn't been able to grab him in time to stall the awkward movement. His shoe had scraped against the pavement. His trousers had caught on the door's mechanism when he threw out his hand to catch himself. Yes. slight discoloration on the palm where he'd caught his substantial weight against the lip of the door. Why hadn't she been able to stall his near-fall? She too had been startled by the uncharacteristic way her boss had been acting. Her hand had slipped from its customary touch on Mycroft's elbow, leaving a small grease stain from her earlier danish on the back of his suit jacket. They had both been so discombobulated from Mycroft's small lapse towards humanity that he had forgotten his umbrella in the back of the black car.

Simple.

Mycroft was rarely alone. Even now, his eyes raked unsubtly over my form, looking for injury. The minions that were almost always hovering just out of earshot had been dismissed from the small study, leaving a shade of intimacy to our conversation that just wasn't on. The signs of his distress fairly screamed at me, causing my furious pacing to stop, mid-step. I wanted to smirk. My plan had gone off perfectly. Sleight of hand, smoke and mirrors. The dull masses did only see what they wanted to see. Even Jo-

_John._ Oh, Bollocks.

I swallowed, blinking twice in rapid succession. My lips pulled down in a frown and I threw myself back down in the frankly embarrassingly ostentatious chair Mycroft preferred for company, purposefully looking back down at my hands. The small fleck of blood caught my attention again and I reached into my borrowed dressing gown for the handkerchief Mycroft insisted upon, folded precisely over the edge of the pocket. I scrubbed at the small spot of blood, knowing that Mycroft was no doubt drawing his own conclusions from my erratic behaviour and utterly, wretchedly unable to bring myself to care one whit.

I forced myself to calm. Sipped the tea. Ignored my cracked and broken phone.

The catch in John's throat as he saw my blood-covered face played on an endless loop in my mind. While I made no attempt to claim that I had more than a passing knowledge with sentiment, my brain's complete refusal to delete the broken note of John's voice was somewhat worrying. I had rather a lot to accomplish after all. Still, I had never claimed that John was anything but endlessly distracting. Even now, he-

"Sherlock-"

My hands tightened on the handkerchief. "I will need access to a safe house. Laptop. Funds. Level three clearance." Obvious. I jumped up again, twisting the small piece of silk through my fingers as I stared, unseeing, at my mobile as I paced. "Moriarty alluded to three snipers. You claimed that one had already been apprehended at the Yard?" My voice rose in a question.

Mycroft jolted out of his reverie. That is to say, his left eyebrow twitched. Ponce. I could not decide if he was mocking me or simply being more blatant in his manipulations by his sudden onset of brotherly concern for my plan. After texting Moriarty, there had not been much time to put all of the pieces of my plan in place. I was willing to admit, privately, that without Mycroft's assistance my suicide would have been much more broken and bleeding and much less smoke and mirrors. Still, he was bloody annoying. I flopped back down into the chair, wincing at the number of contusions that fairly sang their discontent at my movement.

"Yes. I have provided everything that you need, including video feeds of the sniper's detainment." Mycroft waved away my demands as though they were beneath him, a movement that utterly drove me mad.

I could picture John, my mind clearly defining each and every aspect of his compact frame. But I couldn't bring myself to say the words. This was vital. Necessary. John must stay safe. I would do anything, _had _done _everything _to assure that John was not touched by the long reach of Moriarty's arm.

When I was a small child, I had been convinced of my brother's invulnerability. He was older than me. Cleverer than me (_That _particular belief was pure nonsense of course, but every child must be forgiven their little fantasies). I had often been convinced of his omnipotence- at least until I had worked out how to deduce things at my own pace. I was forcibly reminded of this when Mycroft leaned forward slightly, the pale, cold blue of his irises forcing acknowledgement of my own gaze. "He will be under constant surveillance, Sherlock. I will not allow him to come to harm." He sat back slightly, the chair cushion making a muffled protest at the bulk of his body. "You must trust me."

I rolled my eyes.

"Trust you to keep John safe? Don't be any more ridiculous than you can help, Mycroft. I trust my_self _to see that Moriarty's flunkies are quickly subdued. I trust _you_ to provide me with everything that I will need to accomplish this task. John's safety will not be compromised."

I stood, walking quickly towards the door of the small flat. Mycroft had several safe houses, all hidden under different levels of security peppered all over London. "I'm sure you can see yourself out." John would likely bleat that kicking one's own brother out of his own flat was more than a bit not good. But I had had enough. There was much to do and I was positively itching to begin. Nearly everything that I needed was right here in Mycroft's borrowed flat.

Sadly, however, it was blindingly undeniable that John was not one of those things. I flung myself back down on the ridiculously squashy chair, elbows resting on each arm so that I could steeple my fingers in my customary thinking position. John called it my 'daft-looking brain worship pose,' but I had long deduced the most efficient position to assure that the most optimal amount of blood flow to my brain, ensuring that it received the most oxygen. I put the thoughts of John out of my mind. Not to be deleted- I'd long discovered that attempting to delete anything pertaining to John Watson was an exercise in futility- but so that I would not be swimming in this foolish sentiment, the effects of which were still evident in my trembling hands and the higher-than normal heart rate. From far away I could hear the small click of the door as Mycroft walked out of the small flat and once alone took a deep, shuddery breath. I reached for my tea again and forced myself to take a calming sip. I had not... fully anticipated my reaction to faking my own death. Stupid, really. Unforgivably stupid.

John would be fine. He would go through the expected rituals of grief. He would mourn my death, possibly move from our flat... all expected. There was a high probability that his limp would reassert itself. There was an equally high probability that his grief would manifest in a need for closer companionship. Not his sister, at least not after her initial worry. Sawyer? No. The Morstan woman he had met at the coffee shop would most likely fill that desire. I blinked, remembering the way all her focus had been on John, even after he had spilled a good bit of her cappuccino over her table so that it was dripping across her expensive shoes. It had been utterly obvious from the flush on his skin that John shared her blatant attraction.

Without conscious action I found myself throwing the expensive china against the wall, tea splattering on the tasteful wallpaper like blood-spatter. I stared at the mess, shocked at the violence of my actions.

More than a bit not good, that.

**-Now-**

When John finally blinked awake, it was to a light shining directly into his eyes. He winced away, turning his head just enough that it wasn't directly in his face. He could still see little dips and whorls of lights popping behind his hastily closed eyelids.

Turning his head was a mistake.

John groaned, swallowing the bile that jumped to his throat at the movement of his head. He started to bring up his hand to the stabbing pain behind his forehead, but found to his dismay that his hands were cuffed behind him. There was a muffled clunk of sound as the chain of the cuff knocked against the hard surface under him.

He groaned again, trying to blink the sweat out of his eyes. He could hear his own heavy breath echoing in the small space and forced himself to breathe a little more slowly. It wouldn't do to panic. First. Remember. Breathe. _Breathe. _ John heard his deep, shuddery breath echoing in the unfathomable space behind his eyelids. He wasn't quite sure he was brave enough to open his eyes and affirm exactly how fucked he was. John used the trick Ella had insisted he use after Sher-_ No. Stop. _

Breathe in. Hold it. Count. One. Two. Three.

Exhale. Feel it outside of your lungs. One. Two. Three.

John did it again. And again, until the bright burst of panic started to recede. The nausea wasn't exactly pleasant, but he could ignore the way it swam low in his gut. His head was the problem. The blurry vision and pounding headache told him a concussion was fairly bloody likely. John peeped one eye open, trying not to wince at how quickly his pupils reacted. It threw the rest of the small space in shadow.

Cautiously, John tried to sit up, mindful of his head. He had to press against the bottom surface with his shoulder in order to find the leverage to move. Even going as slowly as he was his stomach was not particularly thrilled with the movement and revolted again.

This time, John grimaced, forcing himself not to sick up. God, he fucking hated to vomit. He wasn't too fussed when it belonged to other people (John had pretty much gotten over that during his first residency), but when it was his own he- he- he _really _needed to think about something else.

"So. Small space. Not a room. Bit of give from shoulder to shoulder, so a bit more than a meter and a half?" John slumped to one side of the space, wincing back with a sharp gasp when he felt the heat that bubbled up against the hard surface of the wall. It didn't burn him, but the startled jerk of his sore body made him lose the battle with his stomach. John heaved twice, bending as best he could so that he wouldn't sick up on himself. He failed fairly spectacularly. John's cracked head sent bright starbursts of agony through his clenched eyes as he retched helplessly, his fists curling into his thighs as his body shook through bringing up bile. John had been so intent on trying not to panic that he had not realized that he cracked a rib until he tried to expel his lungs through his oesophagus with dry heaving.

"Well, shit." John spat, made a face and wiped his chin as best he could with his shoulder, turning away from the light so that he could better see. He'd managed to get sick in one of the corners, but his jeans weren't exactly clean anymore. With his hands still cuffed behind him, it was difficult for John to gauge his own sense of balance, but he cautiously inched back until his fingers brushed against the back wall. His foot sent something clattering against the floor's surface, and squinting, John tried to see.

Between the pounding of his head and the positioning of the light, it was extremely hard to focus. John sat with his back against the wall, rising up on his knees a little to test the distance. It was perhaps four feet from floor to ceiling, and John frowned down at his sick-spattered shoe, trying to force himself to think.

John couldn't remember how he'd gotten here. Concussion? Amnesia? His vision wasn't blurry- not with the fucking light of Righteousness shining down on him. He didn't really feel dizzy, but he was more than aware that signs didn't necessarily present right away. The vomiting and the headache weren't looking so good though. His headache was truly spectacular. John knew he was gritting his teeth together. That certainly wasn't doing any wonders for the aching in his head, but he couldn't seem to stop.

With his hands behind his back, John couldn't shade his eyes from the bright glare of the light. Huffing out an annoyed breath, he turned to flop against the other wall, only to jerk back with a pained cry. "_Fuck!_" He bit his bottom lip, jerking back against the back surface with a dejected slump, his skin still stinging. "A current? How the fuck is that even possible?" He wanted to rub his shoulder, and it really fucking pissed him off that he couldn't. It didn't hurt exactly; rather it felt more like his skin was tingling, goosebumps almost crawling against each other on the corner of his acromion forward to the skin of his collar bone.

"You'll find, dear doctor, that just about anything is possible if you want it badly enough."

John managed to hide most of his flinch, but it was a near thing. The voice was loud enough to echo, warped by some kind of voice distorter. It was impossible to tell who was speaking. John waited, closing his eyes. The light was almost hurting now. He could still see the aurora from it, even with his eyes shut. "You must want me pretty badly."

The voice laughed. "You have no idea. I am pleased that you're awake though. I'm afraid my associate was a little too ...enthusiastic... when he captured the two of you."

The two of-

_Sherlock!_

John couldn't help the way his eyes popped open. Memories swam at him all at once, an overwhelming tide that he was helpless to stop. He could see Sherlock's expression as John's words hit him, watching each flinch with on his former best friend's pale face with something very close to satisfaction. John remembered the way he'd had to just leave the microscopic little flat, had thrown off Sherlock's hand on his wrist so hard that Sherlock had stumbled back, tripping over the chair and landing square on his arse. John had run downstairs then, fury giving him the speed he needed to stay ahead of his former friend and flatmate.

They'd been on him almost from the second he'd stepped out from under the bakery's awning. John had been so wrapped up in his own emotions that he hadn't heard the heavy step behind him.

"John! Be_hind_-!"

There had been a cry and John had whirled, only to catch a glimpse of Sherlock sagging into the arms of someone, his ridiculously long frame almost folding in on itself. Sherlock must have been only seconds behind John. He hadn't even heard Sherlock's tread on the stairs. John's heart had simply stopped in his chest at the sight of Sherlock collapsing without even a fight. Reflex had John taking a step forward, instinct sending him jerking away from the menace behind him as his assailant swung the - had to have been a pipe of some sort. A bat perhaps. A two-by-four for all that John knew. He'd only felt the bright starburst of pain at the back of his skull before he blacked out.

The last thing he'd seen from eyes gone fuzzy was Sherlock's bare feet as the two men threw him into the back of a lorry.

"Ah, I can see you know, little Johnny. What's the matter? Feeling a little guilty for the lover's spat? I can assure you that you have much more interesting things to worry about. Open your eyes, please."

"Fuck off."

The voice tsked. "John." Just his name. A warning that sent his balls crawling into his gut with the menace that shone through, even through the voice distorter.

There was an electrical sort of whine and John froze for a second, nervously trying to place the sound. A generator? Older model, like some of the dinosaurs he'd had to count on to provide electricity to his operating tents in Afghanistan. The shock of it caused him to cautiously squint open one eye. The light had been turned down. It was still bright, but not nearly as intense. Blinking, John opened both eyes.

What he saw sent him scrambling forward, all his fury forgotten at the sight of the monitor. Now that the light was not so bright, John could see that the far wall of his box was actually made of a thick plastic (glass? no way to tell) material. He could see directly through it to the flat-screen monitor behind it. The light was also behind the glass, which explained why he hadn't felt any heat from such a bright source of light. John licked his lips, not even noticing the sour taste in his mouth as he stared at the monitor, his heart rate skyrocketing.

The monitor showed that Sherlock was sprawled out on a floor. He was bleeding from a head wound. There was no way to see if he was alive or not. The camera panned back to show a stark room, concrete walls and a cheap lino floor that could have been anywhere. The only way John knew it was real was from the marks on Sherlock. The marks he'd put there. That rip in the seam of Sherlock's t-shirt was from John's hands clutching it. The trousers were the same ones Sherlock had worn for almost a week, switching out only with the pyjamas.

"Yes, as you can see you're not the only one we have here. So I expect you to be on your absolute best behaviour, Doctor. Because trust me. I can make this stay extremely unpleasant. For the both of you."

John didn't even realize that he had scrambled to his knees until his clammy forehead pressed against the cool glass. Sherlock. Oh fuck, _Sherlock. _The camera, as though attuned to John's inner scream of anguish, zoomed in on Sherlock's pale, still face. Sherlock's lips twitched slightly, his nose wrinkling up in the way John had seen hundreds of times before. John heard a strangled sob and realized that it had come from his own throat at the realization that Sherlock wasn't dead. He was alive.

The camera cut off with an abrupt flash of a snow, like a television station that had gone off-air. "No! Sherlock!"

"Now, now Doctor. None of that. Best make yourself comfortable, really. You're likely to be staying here for quite awhile."

John blinked, staring hard at the monitor as though he could make it come back on through his own willpower. Sherlock was alive. Sherlock had been taken, kidnapped when John had been. But Sherlock wasn't dead. Wasn't- His mind flashed on Sherlock's broken, bloody, twisted from on the pavement at Bart's and he couldn't help the way his face crumpled for just a moment.

He took a deep, shaky breath. Another. Breathe in. Hold it. Count. One. Two. Three.

Exhale. Feel it outside of your lungs. One. Two. Three.

Slowly John moved back to his former position. When the light cut out completely, he kept himself from reacting simply by reminding himself that he had an audience. He would not be this sick fuck's entertainment. Best to play along for the time being, see what he could see. John wouldn't be doing anything foolish with the threat of Sherlock being held over his head. That particular Sword of Damocles was not going to fall, not if he had any say in the matter.

The trouble was... John was not all that confident that he had any say in the matter at all.


	2. Chapter 2

**-Before-**

[Text sent: 23 June, 2012, 02:01 am]

**-Obviously your attempts to 'watch over' John are as abysmal as your attempts to use the cut of your suit to hide your ever-expanding waistline. You promised that he would not come to harm. -SH**

[Text sent: 23 June, 2012, 02:01 am]

**-Unavoidable.**

I tightened my fingers with a hiss, sounding much more like an angry cat than I would ever admit to anyone. It wasn't the first time that I had bemoaned Mycroft's utter and complete incompetence, but it was the first time in recent history that his ineptitude had made me this utterly furious.

I should have anticipated the bomb.

Events on the roof had happened so quickly that the idea that Moriarty would have back-up plans had completely knocked me for six. Of _course_ Moriarty would have a failsafe. He knew who to target to best hurt me; naturally he would have something in place if any of those plans were disrupted.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, _stupid_! The extent of my own obtuseness was unforgivable. In this, I was just as complicit as my idiot brother. I paced back and forth in the small flat, my feet cold against the wooden floorboards as I walked the twenty-two steps across the sitting room, only to turn and stalk back. My first night here, almost the first thing I had done was arrange chairs and the settee so that it mimicked the layout of 221B. It was perhaps a bit pathetic, but it gave me the exact pacing space that I'd had for the past eighteen months, and that was vital to my thinking process.

My mobile vibrated in my hand. I looked down at the cracked screen. Even after the events on the roof, I had still adamantly refused to allow Mycroft to buy me another phone. Shameless sentiment, but watching the telltale muscle twitch in my older brother's jowl- Mycroft's version of a strop- was very nearly the only thing I had for entertainment in recent weeks.

The way his face had twisted into something approaching pity after my reaction had been immeasurably worse.

[Text sent: 23 June, 2012, 02:12 am]

** - He is unharmed. So is the housekeeper. They were upstairs together.**

I felt the tension in my shoulders sag, causing me to stop mid-step.

My Homeless Network had been instrumental in providing me with information, since my damnable brother had proven even more useless than usual. Since my "death," John had not left the flat. Mrs. Hudson had only left once, and had been so distraught that she had only made it to Speedy's before Mrs. Turner had stopped her and rather forcefully steered her to a strong cup of tea. Given that Mrs. Turner had been an alcoholic for over ten years (yellow, papery skin, burst blood vessels in her nose, obvious) I rather suspected the cup had a bit more liquid courage in it than tea.

The simple fact was that I did not have enough data. I had erroneously envisioned that I would be able to unravel Moriarty's web and be back with John by Christmas. In the eleven days since my death I had only found one of the three snipers, and that was completely by chance. Mycroft's incompetent underlings had tipped their hand and before killing herself, the sniper had triggered one of the traps.

It was painfully obvious that the explosion had been meant for Mrs. Hudson.

I knew that Mycroft was likely whisking the two of them away to a much safer location. "Taking care of matters," as was his wont. I'm sure the other residents of Baker Street must have more than a passing fear for the gas pipes at 221. That was, if their tiny little minds bothered to think of why there had been two explosions in such a relatively small amount of time at all.

Highly doubtful.

[Text sent: 23 June, 2012, 02:49 am]

**-Everything under observation. Will update soon. Do try to eat something. You know how Mummy worries.**

I snarled down at the cracked display, ready to throw the sodding thing. Oh _really._ Because of course I would be feeling a bit peckish right after my John was blown. _Up. 'Soon?'_ Would it kill the great lump to use a little specificity? And how could he claim to-

Oh bloody, buggering fuck. Of _course. _

It wasn't even the first time Mycroft had alluded to an observation. I whirled, stepping over the coffee table, ignoring the small crack it gave under my weight as I bent for my laptop. Necessity had given me a more than passing familiarity with the inner workings of the British Government, and dipping behind their firewall for access to Mycroft's surveillance cameras was laughingly simple.

I could quickly see that the files were split over two servers. One section was past files, ranging in length and file format. I wasted no time copying them. The other file was a live feed.

My throat tightened as I clicked. I had no illusions that Mycroft was not already aware of who had hacked into his feeds- indeed; he had practically sent me an engraved, monogrammed invitation by "casually" dropping the word observation into our conversation.

Further proof that the target had been Mrs. Hudson was not necessary. I could see that 221B was mostly unchanged by the blast. My eyes flicked over the new crack in the smiley face wall, and it looked like one of the sitting room windows had been shattered from the force of the blast, but it was not the apocalyptic scene of damage that I had envisioned when Mycroft had first texted me. There was some smoke lingering in the air. Some of my books had fallen off the shelves. A fine layer of plaster dust hung over everything like a light dusting of snow.

I could control the camera from my laptop and wasted no time in clicking to the other surveillance cameras scattered throughout the flat:

John's room: empty. Bed made in almost painfully neat hospital corners, the obvious habits of a military man. A lamp had fallen over, but otherwise there were no outward signs of occupation. Of course. Most likely sleeping on the settee.

(-After nightmares, John would often pad out to the living room in bare feet to either curl up on the settee, or to stare broodingly out onto the London night if the settee was otherwise occupied. More often than not I could chase him back to bed with the sounds of my violin, attempting to calm and soothe to the best of my rather stellar ability.

John must have his sleep.

I just ensured that he was able to rest for a few more hours before his alarm clock went off with its blaring insistence. I never acknowledged my impromptu concerts, and John certainly never did something as painfully pedestrian as thank me for what he surely had to know I was doing...)

My breath tightened painfully in my chest.

The kitchen: shards of broken crockery strewn about. One cabinet open, empty, obvious. The detritus of my lab had been flung rather haphazardly into a box in the corner of the room, experiments no doubt binned. Not John. Mrs. Hudson? My huff of exasperation was loud in the quietness of Mycroft's flat.

I clicked on the last camera.

My room: Bed mussed, duvet sloppily kicked to the foot of the bed, half hanging off as though the bed's sleeper...

My observations shuddered to a halt and I stared almost solemnly at the familiar expanse of my room.

There was an oatmeal-coloured jumper tossed haphazardly next to my blue dressing gown, both balled up together on one side of my bed.

"John." I cleared my throat, guilt swarming in my gut.

Obviously my flatmate, my _colleague_, my... best fr- My thoughts skittered off in every conceivable direction as the sensitive microphone on the camera's feed picked up John's distinctive tread on the stair. I swallowed hard enough that I could hear the click of my dry throat. Dimly, I was aware of my heartrate increasing as John's steps took him closer and closer to our flat.

Another miscalculation. I had assumed that Mycroft would situate both John and Mrs. Hudson in another safehouse; momentarily forgetting of course the utterly complete stubbornness of Captain Doctor John Watson. He would have gone with Mrs. H, to see her safe. Naturally. However the idea of him being coddled by Mycroft's endless supply of well-dressed workers would not have sat well.

Oh _God._

I felt as though I had been punched in the throat. No. I had been punched in the throat before; Uni, details deleted. This was more painful. My fingers felt cold as they came up to flutter uselessly against my skin, as though holding the breath inside my oesophagus.

His limp was back. I could see that it wasn't psychosomatic this time; the bright white bandage that encircled his strong thigh was caked with dried blood. The camera did not allow me to see his face from this angle, but I could see the shudder of the breath in his body as he cast his gaze around the flat, watched as his shoulders hunched defensively in on himself.

John allowed himself a moment to huddle against the door before pushing himself up and limping towards the kitchen. One of the constants of the universe- John took comfort in the small, familiar necessity of making tea. Inflicting order on disorder.

I flipped to the kitchen camera and now I could see the painful bruising under his eyes. Even Anderson would be able to put together that John was not sleeping well. I flinched to see that he had aged in the almost fortnight since Bart's. His hand trembled as he made the tea, clenching into a fist as he waited for the kettle to boil.

The rigid frailty of his shoulders did not waver as he poured the hot water into ... into...

I could not help the way I leaned forward to touch the image of John's face on my laptop screen, observing in an almost detached way the way his lip trembled once, his face crumpling for just a moment like a child whose world had just ended. The harsh breath could have come from my own worthless lungs as he visibly composed himself, muscle in his jaw twitching as he bit painfully at the fragile skin, refusing to lose his composure.

John had made my cup of tea without realizing it, the long-familiar habit as much a part of him as the hospital corners on his unused bed. I could not help but deduce how often this happened as I watched John calmly pour the untouched tea in the second mug into the sink.

A quick glance at the broken shards of crockery was answer enough.

**-Now-**

John had no way of keeping time. He knew that hours had to have passed by the way he'd been forced to relieve himself, like a dog stuck in a pen. His throat was painfully dry, and his requests for water had gone unanswered.

A thudding, furious anger echoed the throbbing in his head as he sat in his own filth, staring hard in the darkness at the clear wall where the light had been, as though he could force the madman holding him to show him Sherlock by stoicism alone.

To keep himself awake he went over simple facts in his head.

He and Sherlock had been kidnapped.

John was being held in a box. It was more crate than coffin-sized. The width from side to side was roughly a meter and a half. Since his hands were tied behind him, John couldn't be certain, but he'd been able to guess by inchworming around. There was a bit more space from head to foot. He could lie down with the top of his head touching the back wall and point his toes in his filthy trainers, so the length was a bit more than his own height.

His breath had gotten a bit wonky when John realized that this box had to have been built to his height specifications. It had taken a good five minutes before his heart had stopped jumping around.

When John planted his arse on the floor and sat up, the very top of the crate was mere centimetres above the top of his head.

Even more troubling was the realization that each surface was made of a different kind of material. The topmost one was a metal alloy. His head hadn't liked him much when he found that out by _thunking_ his temple against the top during one of his less than graceful inchworm moves. The southernmost plate near his toes was the thick plastic that allowed him to see the monitor. The light hadn't been turned on since he'd gotten the brief glimpse of his friend.

In the hours that passed, John couldn't tell what material was to his right, only that it was blistering hot to the touch. Somehow the heat didn't fill the small space, but when he touched it he hissed with pain. His mind shuddered away from examining the amount of work that had gone into keeping him captive.

The wall to his left was the one with the current. It reminded him of the bug zappers near the field hospital by Camp Bastion, only John didn't much care for the fact that in this particular situation he was the bug being zapped. After hearing the distorted voice, curiosity and boredom had him brushing his shoulder against the wall, tensing his sore body for the same level of electricity from before. His ribs still throbbed from his first attempt. Pure tenacity had kept him trying, noticing that the strength of the current petered out over time.

So not only kidnapped, but stuck in a box by some mad fucker who had _planned_ on John being here.

John, having already recited the names of the bones from his skull down to his feet, started again, from feet to skull. He caught himself nodding off twice. He knew that he would not be able to stay awake much longer. Between exhaustion and his head injury, he was just about at the end of his tether. "Distal... phalanges. Metatarsals..."

"Not getting bored are we?"

John's eyes popped open. Instead of the blinding lights from before, one single bulb illuminated the man standing outside of the box. John squinted, but with his dilated pupils he couldn't make out any distinct features. He rolled his eyes when he realized that part of the glass was frosted to further disguise his captor. Again, a small detail, yet intricately planned. It was surprisingly creepy.

John opened his mouth, then shut it, refusing for a moment to answer. Sherlock's lanky body flopping onto the lino flashed in his mind's eye and John grit his teeth, forcing himself to take a deep, steadying breath, ignoring how his cracked ribs pulled.

"You look filthy, pet. I have a fix for that." The electronic, distorted voice chuckled, and for a second John was shocked into immobility. Pet? Only one other man had. Was it possible that...? No. No, Sherlock had been _adamant_ that Moriarty was dead.

But Sherlock had been wrong before. Not often, true. But often enough.

John heard a squeak and tilted his head up, straining to focus his bleary gaze on the roof. A small section near where the man was standing opened, and John froze to realize that a large hose, similar to one used with housefires was being fed through the small opening. His fuzzy brain only had a split second to process what was about to happen before water began gushing out of the hose. John couldn't help the shriek as he attempted to fling himself away from the wall with the current, only to knock his head painfully against the wall with the blistering heat.

It took several heartbeats before his panicked body realized that the power had been cut to both the sides of the crate. There was no place to hide from the water. John attempted to fling himself to the monitor wall, but the spray of the high-pressured hose completely permeated the small space, leaving nowhere for John to hide. He was drenched utterly, the muck on his body sluicing off of him and leaving him violently shivering.

"You'll notice that the floor drains your mess quite nicely. It would sure be a shame if I forgot to flip the lever that opened the drain, yeah?" The voice cackled, but John was too overwhelmed to respond. He curled up as best he could, ignoring his throbbing head and bright starburst of pain from his ribs, waiting for the water to stop.

Finally though, his captor decided enough was enough. The faint drips tapered off to a dibble, then the wet _plonk_ _plonk _ _plonk _ of a faucet that hadn't been turned off properly. John heaved a teeth-chattering sob of relief, beyond caring what the crazy fuck thought of him.

"Very nice, Doctor. Stand up, please." The hose was drawn back. "It appears that you need some medical attention. Forgive my lapse; I was dealing with your erstwhile partner. Bit of a pain in the arse, that one, eh?" Incredibly, the voice had adopted an almost commiserating tone, as though he and John had been mates for years.

John blinked.

_Was_ dealing? What the sodding fuck did _that_ mean?

"Come now, Doctor. Just had a bit of a setback is all, yeah? No big. Shouldn't really be a shock, really that the great ponce would be so selfish as to just leave you behind. Not like he hasn't done that before, eh? Now turn. Have to clean you up a bit more. Bit of a plan change, but if nothing else, over the last three months, I've learned that I can be surprisingly adaptable."

John's sluggish mind was whirling, adrenaline giving him the kick in the arse he needed to make him actually_ think_ instead of just react. Aware that he was still shivering, John scooted his arse over slowly, feeling sick when the leather-coated fingers pushed through the hole in the glass, pushing at the bend of his neck. John was thinking so hard that not cooperating didn't even occur to him.

Sherlock had gotten away? Was that a lie? Was this just another way to fuck with him? Honestly, John had expected more in the way of mental fuckery given the scope and plan for the little box of horrors. The water had been a nasty trick; all the more for the sodding wait of anticipation for _something_ to happen. If Sherlock_ had_ escaped, that would explain the way John had been figuratively cooling his heels for hours. Or, Sherlock was still on a floor somewhere, out cold. Maybe even dead.

No. Ridiculous. Sherlock Holmes had successfully faked his own death. Sherlock wasn't dead. John refused to think any further along those lines.

John tensed, freezing in place at the cold slide of a hypodermic needle as it slid into his neck. Whatever it was reacted to his painfully empty stomach quickly, sending the dim light of the box swirling unpleasantly before his eyes. John landed face-first on the floor, his cheek smooshing uncomfortably on the floor. It sent a starburst of colour ricocheting behind his eyes.

"Fuck... _me_."

The cackle of his captor's laughter was the last thing John heard before he finally passed out.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**-Interlude-**

It seemed, rather unsurprisingly to the few that knew the Holmes brothers even slightly, that when things took a turn for the worse, they did so rather spectacularly. It was, as Anthea's mum would have said (way, _way_ before Anthea _was_ Anthea or Danaë, Cassandra or Hermione, when she was plain old Vera Jones) "Summat ought t' be done about that, yeah? 'S all gone more'n a bit tits up, if y'ask me."

Indeed. Her mum had been wise in all the ways that mattered.

It wasn't her place to question. When Mr. Holmes had a task for her to complete, she did it with no fuss. Anything and everything: from fetching tea to helping coordinate small, domestic matters involving no less than fourteen of her Majesty's highly specialized SIS agents. Anthea was very good at her job, and not voicing her opinion was only one of the many things Mr. Holmes required of her.

She slipped silently into the room, careful to keep her face blank as the two voices rose. Sherlock's was easily discernible; the normally velvet-smooth baritone was hard to forget. He was shouting furiously at his brother. Also not a surprise. The younger Holmes, for all he claimed to eschew emotions, had no issues expressing his extensive frustration and hatred for his eldest brother. Mr. Holmes' voice, in contrast, was smooth and rather higher pitched. What caused Anthea to stumble in shock was the... worry in her employer's tone. She shifted uncomfortably in the doorway. Had the information in her hands not been of the utmost importance, Anthea would have made her way out of Mr. Holmes' office, so as to not intrude on the brothers' ... discussion.

"- and what, dear brother... exactly what _help_ can I expect from you? Your intolerable..._incompetence _is what got John..." Sherlock broke off, mid-sentence, biting off each syllable as though the words were so disgusting that he couldn't tolerate having them in his mouth any longer than he had to.

Anthea watched as Mr. Holmes' mouth opened slightly, as if to reply. The crash of the paperweight that once lived on the edge of Mr. Holmes' desk was loud against the wall.

It wasn't even that expensive of a trinket, really. Last year, Mr. Holmes had insisted that she go on a bit of a holiday, despite her strenuous protests. Coming back was always worse after she'd been gone on a scheduled business-related trip, as though disorganization and ineptitude had run merrily amok while Anthea was away. Two weeks spent completely out of touch? Horrible.

But Mr. Holmes had insisted.

In retaliation, Anthea had bought the most excruciatingly tacky piece of kitsch she could find. The glass itself was clear, but inside the small paperweight was a sparkly, glittery surface. On the surface, spelled out in blinking LED lights of every neon colour imaginable (and a few that weren't) were the words **ME- BOSS**: you- little person

Anthea certainly had never intended for Mr. Holmes to keep the bloody thing, let alone display it prominently on his desk where anyone could see it.

Anthea couldn't help the small sound she made when it shattered like a small bomb, spraying the Agra rug with both glitter and neon slivers of glass that winked malevolently in the faint sunlight that shone, despite the three weeks of purely ghastly weather, into the large corner office.

Both sets of eyes turned to hers at once. Mr. Holmes' gaze looked weary beyond the greatest measure and Sherlock's... Sherlock looked as though he'd been absolutely gutted.

Anthea swallowed, hard. The look on Sherlock's face was gone in the blink of an eye. It was tremendously telling that it took a few heartbeats before the expression on Mr. Holmes' face solidified to its customary blank slate. Immediately, Anthea found herself bristling on behalf of her employer, although taking care to keep such tells off her own face.

"You are needed in the viewing room, sir." Professionalism kept Anthea's voice clear. "And your head needs medical attention," she said to Sherlock, frowning.

The thin man, somehow looking less solid without his customary coat and finely-tailored suits, made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat. More than familiar with Sherlock's antics, Anthea simply spoke over him before he could protest. "You will be of no use to your doctor if you collapse from a concussion, and you really are bleeding rather profusely." Anthea kept her own expression a little bored, as though telling him to take advantage of simple logic was tedious beyond belief. The twitch of Mr. Holmes' lower lip was confirmation that she was doing the right thing, when normally she would have waited for his instruction.

It was rather obvious that Sherlock had no interest in any of his brother's suggestions.

Anthea ducked her head, texting quickly. "Dr. Posey will meet us in the viewing room." He was one of the few doctors on this floor with adequate security clearance, so it was hardly a difficult choice. Anthea turned, pausing for only a moment, continuing to text as though she could care less whether the two of them followed her or not.

The viewing room sounded pleasant, but the fact that there were three different security features before one was even allowed on the floor made certain that only a few people could access its contents. If some unsavoury character happened to bypass the swipe card that logged who was attempting to gain entry, or the keypad where a code and thumbprint must be scanned, there were two armed agents sitting behind glass who had standing orders to shoot anyone they did not physically recognize on site. The panic button not only sent out a signal to other agents within the building (not-so incidentally informing Mr. Holmes of the attempted break-in,) but it sent out a pulse that would render all he computerized information in the small room useless.

Anthea texted that she and Mr. Holmes would have a guest and to expect a doctor to join them before they made it to the lift. The ride down to the viewing room was silent, neither brother willing to continue their discussion- if one could call it that- in front of her.

That was fine. It wasn't as though Mr. Holmes wouldn't send her all the information she needed anyway.

And to tell the truth, she really couldn't blame either one of them. Sherlock... well. With all he had done to keep Doctor Watson safe, the fact that this had happened now, under Mr. Holmes' watch was a terrible kind of irony.

Her phone vibrated and Anthea glanced down. Only one phone, other than her own, had the capability of receiving a signal this deep underground.

[Text received: 7 October, 2012, 12:00 pm]

**-One of our own; need confirmed. - MH**

Anthea hiked an eyebrow. Her mum had been right. A 'bit tits up', indeed. The fact that it had to have been one of Mr. Holmes own agents, a man or woman trusted, with a finely-specialized skill set... She allowed herself a small sigh. The staff meetings _alone _for the next year certainly would be less than pleasant.

She would wait until the Holmes brothers were safely ensconced in the heavily-encrypted information in the viewing room before she assembled the information needed to discover which of Mr. Holmes' agents were working with Jim Moriarty.

The lift doors opened with a soft chime. Anthea walked purposefully through the checkpoints, treating them as the afterthought that they were. The agents on duty already had all the information they needed to recognize Sherlock Holmes, which was probably a very good thing given his present mood. She didn't anticipate that he would hold still for lengthy chats or identity confirmations.

As soon as Mr. Holmes crossed pass the threshold, each agent employed inside straightened slightly, becoming more focused on their tasks. Anthea idly noted the commotion as Dr. Posey was scanned through and crossed to an empty station to begin her own research. She purposefully sat where she could watch the Holmes brothers. Anthea didn't fool herself into thinking that she was hiding her regard from the two most observant men in Europe, yet neither of them seemed to notice her presence as their attention was caught by the camera tech on duty.

Perfect.

It was her job to fade into the background. Anthea allowed herself a small smile as she logged in.

Mr. Holmes shifted his weight, gripping his umbrella as the tech clicked a few times, bringing up the camera footage. Dr. Posey bustled forward, taking care of the large gash on the back of Sherlock's head. Anthea was certain that it was only the utter shock of seeing what was on the camera footage that kept the younger Holmes still for the doctor's ministrations. A large part of her doubted that he was even aware of what the good doctor was doing.

The timestamp showed that it was early morning. Fog swirled around Doctor Watson's feet as he came storming out from under the awning. He had walked out without his jacket, clad only in a striped jumper. John Watson was clearly furious. His hands were clenched at his sides and his jaw looked like a block of granite. It was a frequent pose for those who dealt with Sherlock Holmes.

Whatever had made Doctor Watson- and really, Anthea reckoned after you had bought pants for a man (that had been one time, and she suspected Mr. Holmes had had more than a bit of a joke at the good doctor's expense) you could call the man by his first bloody name- that furious must have been rather spectacular if it resulted in the man leaving the protective detail he'd been living under for so long.

"Where are the agents on duty?" The tech's shoulders hunched slightly at Mr. Holmes' question.

"Moss and Moran. Yes, sir. I have that information right..." The tech paused the playback, then stretched, rolling his desk chair over to another monitor and calling up the information. "According to Agent Moss, she and Moran were detained by foot traffic at the bakery. By the time they realized the subject was moving, Mr. Watson and Mr. uh," the tech darted a quick gaze to Sherlock who stood like a statue, cold and still as he focused that great brain on the tech's words. " Uh. Holmes. Had been. Er. Abducted."

He unpaused the video. John took another two steps, then whirled. They could hear- off camera- Sherlock's cry of warning. The angle of the surveillance camera looked to be off kilter- only recording part of the doorway, the stoop, and the pavement, instead of where John and Sherlock struggled with their captors. The tech paused the playback again and switched to another camera's angle.

This camera was also obviously tampered with. It only showed Sherlock's long, lanky body as he collapsed on the pavement. The sound was up and they could hear them being attacked, hear the squeal of tyres against the kerb as the vehicles sped off.

Sherlock turned to look at his brother, and Anthea winced at the way Mr. Holmes actually flinched at the undiluted emotion on his younger brother's face.

Anthea already texted both Moran and Moss, informing them that they would be taking a meeting with Mr. Holmes in fifteen minutes then bent to her task. Quickly Anthea read and filtered the information, sending Mr. Holmes a file for his perusal.

Agent Adele Moss had been with the agency for six years, and had moved quickly through the ranks. She was known to have several weapons specialties as well as special training in hand-to-hand-combat. She had dual citizenship in both America and the UK, and had served as a liaison for two years with the CIA before she had come to Mr. Holmes' attention. She was often commended for various details, having the single distinction of never losing any of the subjects that she was assigned to protect. She was single, owned a small flat in Kensington, and had what looked to be a rather fluffy cat called Jess. Anthea included all of the records at their disposal, including school records and a few notes from a childhood therapist.

Agent Sebastian Moran had been recruited straight from the military. He had specialized in every weapons field available, and was widely considered to be an expert at his craft. As a child he had entered and won several sharpshooter contests, and Moran had frequently been deployed as a sniper for SIS missions. In fact, he had been pulled off the detail of a minor issue in Turkey to help protect Mr. Holmes' brother and colleague. Moran came from a large family, all of whom were in the military. Moran also had several commendations in his file. He had a boyfriend called Andrew, although there was little information available on him, other than he was rumoured to be a computer specialist. Anthea made a note to follow up with information on Moran's significant other, and added this information to Mr. Holmes' file.

Anthea watched as Sherlock finally jerked away from the doctor, only to push the hapless tech out of the way and begin queuing up the films again, ignoring the man's useless sputtering.

For the first time since entering the viewing room, Mr. Holmes met Athena's gaze. The worry from earlier was gone. No surprise there. Mr. Holmes wouldn't deem to show such naked emotion in front of subordinates. Anthea tried her damndest to ignore the strange, fluttery feeling in the bottom of her stomach at the realization that perhaps, to Mr. Holmes, she was not considered a subordinate.

She frowned.

That was a ridiculous thought, and had nothing to do with the current crisis. After copying the file to her own records, Anthea logged out and saw to making sure Sherlock had copies of all the surveillance footage, such as it was.

"Sherlock. Copies of those files have been sent to your email address, as well as the case notes from both Agents Moran and Moss."

Sherlock ignored her, muttering under his breath as he once again watched the films. Anthea only caught a few words here and there- mostly bitten-off curses. She knew from experience that he was deducing; taking in every single iota of information that the films would give him. The small chirp of Sherlock's message notification seemed inordinately cheery in the quiet room.

"Anthea. I believe we are expected elsewhere. Coming, dear brother?" Mr. Holmes' grip on his brolly tightened and Anthea knew her employer had to be berating himself. It was simply unfathomable that he had allowed someone they knew to compromise the safe house that had held Sherlock and Dr. Watson.

Sherlock hissed, sounding like a furious cat. He was tremendously pale, causing the small contusions to stand out on his face like drops of painful ink on a spotless piece of linen. He stood up and clutched his phone, looking down at the notification. Anthea followed the two brothers out of the viewing room and back to the lift.

"The two agents report that they are on their way." Anthea reported more for Sherlock's benefit than Mr. Holmes'. It was a pathetic attempt to get his mind focused on something other than his missing friend, and she felt terribly pathetic at both the attempt and its reception. The lift doors couldn't open quickly enough.

Mr. Holmes stopped short of the small room, standing back so that he could precede his brother into the room. Anthea tilted her head, pausing when her employer did.

"Thank you, Anthea. Your... assistance has been." Mr. Holmes paused. His blue gaze sharpened, intensified. "Invaluable, as usual."

Anthea blinked, nonplussed, trying to hide her surprise. "Of course, sir." She kept her voice professional, allowing herself a small, acknowledging smile.

"Two agents. Possibly three. Outside help, obvious. Knew where the surveillance cameras were. Knew how to be certain that they would not show the details of John's abduction."

"Sher-lock." Mr. Holmes drew out his younger brother's name as he stepped inside of the room, a slight frown on his face. "Before the agents arrive, perhaps you can explain how you came to escape? With_out_ your Doctor?"

Anthea almost dropped her phone. That. That was. Well, she knew the two brothers had more than a bit of animosity towards one another, but that had been rather low.

Sherlock stopped his furious pacing as though electrocuted. He drew himself up, straightening his shoulders and staring at his brother as though he knew exactly how he wanted to kill him. "John. Made me. Promise." The dirty trainers and filthy t-shirt and jeans did nothing to detract from the barely-restrained fury.

Oh. Clever doctor. Anthea stared at her phone, feeling painfully awkward.

"Hm." Mr. Holmes crossed to the small desk, sitting down behind it with a small, disdainful sniff. While Anthea was certain that the small mess from the paperweight had been cleaned up, she knew that Mr. Holmes would not want to conduct this particular interview in his office. "Rather manipulative, although I cannot say I am unappreciative of the results. Still, the fact that your doctor was able to get you to promise something, and _adhere_ to that promise?" Mr. Holmes' small smirk spoke volumes. "Impressive."

Sherlock's gaze glittered. His mouth twisted, no doubt to deliver a scathing reply, but before he could there was a small, tentative knock on the door. He whirled and stalked to the corner facing the doorway, furthest from his brother.

Anthea heard the chirp of his phone. Sherlock was too furious to notice, visibly restraining himself from responding to his brother's dig.

Had she been alone, she would have sighed. It was so obvious, really. Mr. Holmes was giving his younger brother a very obvious target to direct his rage towards. Still it wasn't her place to comment.

Anthea opened the door and a very subdued, clearly terrified Agent Moss slipped inside, standing at a rather brittle attention. Her gaze flicked quickly to Sherlock, before settling on her boss.

"And where is Agent Moran?" The question was rhetorical, but Agent Moss winced. Both Holmes' gazes fixed on the poor woman like predators after a particularly tasty bit of prey. Just as her mouth opened to respond, Sherlock's phone chirped once again. With a snarl, Sherlock glanced down, only to utterly freeze. Anthea had never seen someone become so still, so quickly.

Mr. Holmes' phone buzzed quietly against the desk where he had carefully placed it.

Sherlock gasped. That was perhaps why she didn't notice when her own phone buzzed silently in her hand. His eyes widened, going from furious to utterly wounded in the space of half a heartbeat.

Agent Moss' ringtone: _Secret Agent Man_, sent the woman blushing furiously, fumbling to silence her phone.

It was only chance that had Anthea standing close enough to Sherlock to catch him when he swayed. She tottered in her heels as Sherlock caught his balance by roughly grabbing her shoulder, ignoring the fact that neither of them was particularly comfortable with being touched.

The image of John Watson's face was frozen on Sherlock's phone. Anthea felt the gasp of breath Sherlock took before he tapped the cracked screen.

The doctor looked very small, spread out on a metal gurney. His hands were stretched above his head, and it was obvious that the doctor's shoulder was dislocated. His hands and ankles were cuffed so that he was attached to the table. Bright light shone down on the gurney, sending brief flashes back towards the camera. There was quite a lot of bruising on his ribs and abdomen. A pair of hospital scrubs hung low on his hips.

John was either unconscious or sleeping, his head turned away from the camera.

Both she and Sherlock jumped when a face popped up in front of the camera. It was impossible to tell if it was male or female under the mask. Its eyes were hidden by sunglasses. The face put a finger to its lips in an exaggerated request for silence. The figure tiptoed cartoon-like, with ridiculously overdone movements, towards where John lay cuffed to the table.

The hand, covered in a nitrile glove, skimmed lightly over John's flank, up over the slight pooch of his abdomen to clamp down cruelly on the doctor's dislocated shoulder.

John jolted, waking up with a scream of agony.

Sherlock made a small, hurt, shocked sound as he watched his friend's head whip around, watched his body arch as the hand yanked on the separated shoulder. John quite obviously forced himself to hold in his pain, his teeth clamping down on his bottom lip hard enough that Anthea didn't know how he didn't bite through the pale flesh. He glared up at the figure, forcing his body to relax.

"Where's...Sherlock?"

Sherlock's long fingers dug into Anthea's shoulder like claws. She winced, dimly aware of Mr. Holmes barking orders into a phone. Agent Moss set her phone onto the desk before two other Agents escorted her from the office. Something about the video. Phones. The same video was sent to several phones? She frowned, and refocused, unable to make herself look away from the broken screen of Sherlock's phone.

"Oh come now, John. I can call you John, right? I mean, I feel as though we know each other so... _intimately_ after all." The tone was familiar, even friendly, but the voice was distorted, sounding alien and jarring to Anthea's ears. The gloved fingers skimmed across the doctor's collarbone. "But all this... is rather tedious. Jim left rather specific instructions for me to follow and we best get to them, eh? But before we do- I need you to look over at that camera for me."

The person in the mask forcibly turned John's head, bending down so that their heads were together, waving frantically as though taking a holiday snap. "Hiiiii! Smile, John, your detective is no doubt waaatch-ing." The distorted voice sounded hideous as it sing-songed. It leaned closer to John's ear in a mockery of a whisper. "He likes to watch, you know."

There was a grating, echoing laugh, then it slowly changed as the electronic distortion was removed, becoming a low, cultured voice. "Oh! I almost forgot. I'm sure your brother already knows this but..." The figure took off the mask and gloves, humming a jaunty tune under his breath.

It was Sebastian Moran.

The video cut off abruptly.

For a heartbeat no one in the small office moved. Sherlock jerked away from Anthea, stalking towards his brother, face twisted in a murderous rage. Anthea moved without thinking, sweeping Sherlock's long legs out from under him so that he crumpled onto the floor, landing hard on his arse. He looked not unlike a colt who had failed at taking its first steps.

Anthea took a slow, steady breath. "You're supposed to be the most brilliant man in Europe. Perhaps you can focus that blinding intelligence on finding your friend instead of murdering your brother?" Anthea forced a small smile. "It is so desperately difficult to find such excellent dental."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

A/N: Mind the warnings here. Long chapter is long. Some John/OMC and light d/s tones. (sort of? Well, you'll see what I mean.) Gore, little bit more John whump, then it will get better bbs. Promise.

**-Before-**

Shame was rather a new concept for me. I was fully cognizant of what so-called normal society thought of what I was doing, and prior to this I would have been the first to say that I had the self-discipline to restrain myself (not often, but yes, when I felt it was warranted) yet I simply could not make myself stop. Not when it came to John.

It had been a filthy little flat in Kyrgyzstan where I had first realized that my habit of 'just checking in' on John during my absence was less of a kindly check-in, and more of an obsessive need to see that he was... whole.

He wasn't of course. Bags under his eyes, greyish pallor to his skin, the fact that he had dropped at least a stone, all obvious, all utterly baffling. I had honestly not expected for John to be this affected by my death. I did understand that he would be wrapped in sentiment, but I was led to believe that after a moderate period of grief, he would move on with his dull, boring life.

Even more surprising was the realization that I... ached. Even now as I recount this, I feel like an utter knob for sounding so sentimental, but the fact remains that I missed my blogger. My friend. I missed him _dreadfully_. The oddest little things would refuse to stay on their proper shelf in my Mind Palace: the smell of his aftershave (the every day one, not the 'date' one), the way he would scrub down the toilet and bathroom sink like he was going to be performing heart surgery on the porcelain, but would leave a mountain of dirty dishes on his desk, the way he would get that tiny glow of admiration when I had said something particularly brilliant- all tiny, insignificant things that I should have been able to delete.

I had had one of those periods of ennui; bored and listless as I waited for confirmation of the minor little crime boss to approve my plans. So tedious. Breaking into Moriarty's web meant several different aliases, all of whom had their own stories and skill sets. My damnable brother was, point of fact, good for _some_thing, and had kept quite a few of his minions busy by confirming the little nibbles as one alias after another was checked for its validity.

The filthy flat in which I had been occupied at the time had one room; no furniture except for a bed that at first glance had made me resolute not to allow my bare skin to touch its clearly unsanitary surface. I had a blanket that I was stretched out on, fully clothed. There was no attached en suite. Several tenants shared the dismal little room. All-in-all, quite a few steps down from Mycroft's posh flat where I had hid previously.

The flat, however, had boasted one thing. An arms dealer by the name of Torgutav. He was rather a large fly in Moriarty's web, and he happened to live above me. It had been child's play to set up the camera and recording equipment, ensuring that the tedium of a surveillance was alleviated by informing Mycroft of the little fish my net had caught. Certainly I wasn't planning on watching the petty criminal. It was bad enough that I could _hear_ what he was doing with the barely-legal whore that visited him in his room every Tuesday.

Still, thinking of surveillances had made me think of John, and, as my impulse control was rather laughable when it came to my former flatmate, it had taken only moments before I was once again logged into the feeds in 221B.

I had tapped impatiently on the plastic of my laptop, waiting for the hack to load. It was rather necessary that I ensure that my signal was bounced through several different servers before the familiar surroundings of my home appeared in miniature through Mycroft's feed. My fingers had stopped mid-tap, my mouth unhinging just slightly.

John.

It was immediately apparent what he was doing, yet the thought of shutting the laptop and leaving him to his privacy never crossed my mind. A quick flick of my gaze around the dim room had several different sources of data (light dusting of water on John's chest, discarded towel, half-empty bottle of scotch) filtering through my hard drive, yet the majority of my attention was focused on... _Christ_.

John, as he sat slouched on the settee, legs spread in an uncaring sprawl, head tilted back so that his eyes stared blindly up at the ceiling, lower lip planted firmly between his teeth as he stroked his prick with sure, deft strokes.

I had felt as though I had been hit in the chest. My skin had been too hot, no. Too _cold_ as I watched John toss off. I was aware of my breathing as I had watched, heavy and accelerated until I was almost panting. Shame warred briefly with my sudden, sharp desire to see John finish, see him spend over his fist, or perhaps his chest; the settee where I had spent a good deal of my time.

John though, stopped just before he would have orgasmed, trailing his hands back over his stomach and chest, leaving his red, twitching prick alone as he spread his legs a little more, adjusting how he sat. The light sweat on the backs of John's thighs squeaked against the leather surface of the sofa, and I had found myself biting my lower lip.

I had been uncomfortably aware of my own body as I watched, of the way my clothes rubbed against suddenly too-sensitive skin, the fine fabrics itchy and much too rough. I shifted on the disgusting bed in the filthy little flat and gripped the edges of my laptop hard enough that my fingers looked like those of a corpse, bloodless and claw-like as they clutched the thin plastic surface.

John had forced himself to slow down, to back away from the edge of his own desire, and I jerked my gaze up to his face, all at once curious as to what woman he was imagining. Sarah? That saccharine- sweet Morstan woman from the coffee shop? Some other faceless, nameless body- a soft, jiggling pair of breasts, a sense-memory of sliding into slick wetness, a gasping, breathy moan as painted nails scratched and clutched at John's shoulders?

I had watched as John reached for his drink, throwing it back blindly and resuming his previous position. The muscles of his throat trembled as he shuddered when his hand, cold from the ice in his glass, stroked along his shaft and I found myself licking my lips as he started again. The circle of his first few fingers and his thumb pulled down the foreskin before tightening so that John had to fuck up into his own hand, feet braced on the floor as he changed his grip. I watched as he began to flush, the ruddiness in his cheeks spreading slowly down his neck, over his slightly tanned shoulders and chest.

My throat had gone utterly dry as I watched John finish stroking himself, shaking, quiet except for a sharp cry that he couldn't bite back. He was completely lost in his head; his hands touched his body as a lover's would, and I was at once so immensely jealous and disgusted with myself that I slammed the laptop shut and shoved it off of my lap so that it fell onto the floor with a soft thunk.

Luckily, the gunshot from Torgutav's flat had provided a welcome distraction from my guilt, and I had put the whole incident from my mind. Not deleted, no. But put on a special shelf in my Mind Palace where I could re-examine when I had the time and inclination to do so. Obviously, it had been much easier to just put the incident from my mind completely.

Until Paraguay.

Paraguay had necessitated a controlled relapse. Completely within my control of course. Mostly. Mycroft had been adamant that I not involve myself in this particular aspect of seedy underworld crime, yet it had been laughingly simple to set myself up as a distributor. My chemistry skills produced a very profitable product. Now of course I realized that it had been too simple, but Kirill had presented such a juicy, tempting fruit.

John had often told me that my plans lacked a proper amount of preplanning and had he known what I had gotten myself into he would have been tediously vocal on the subject.

Not to mention smug, once my injuries had healed.

Unfortunately, Kirill was not as much of a moron as I had originally thought. I had stupidly tipped him off, and as a punishment, he made certain that I was injected with my own drugs. I did manage to kill him on my way out, but it had been rather a close thing, interspersed with the furious functioning of my mind as it processed both the additional inward and outward stimuli. How I had stumbled to my hotel room was much more luck than skill, and once again I had found myself watching John.

Seeing him made my body react.

Even now I remembered how I could feel my pulse thudding, heavy and much faster than normal, even as the chemical cocktail began to wear off. My skin had felt too tight once again as I had watched John stare at something, his face curiously blank. Even switching camera angles did not afford me a clear view, but I had been able to deduce that whatever the object was, it was one that was causing John some level of stress.

Mrs. Hudson had called and with a flash John had hidden the object and had turned towards the door with his face arranged in pleasant surprise. Unless one looked at his eyes. It did not surprise me that Mrs. Hudson missed it as she clucked around, making tea and arranging the pasties she had obviously made. My razor-clear gaze had been unable to look towards Mrs. Hudson's face for very long; it was strangely painful to look away from John even for a moment.

My mouth had watered, and I clearly remembered the cold, sharp sting in my chest, despite the lethargy that was slowly replacing the nervous chemical energy that coursed through my veins. I had felt my own pulse with something very like confusion as I watched John lean slightly into Mrs. Hudson's frail frame, allowing her to shoulder some of his grief for just a moment, the steam from the tea curling around the both of them.

For a stupid, _stupid_ moment I had convinced myself that it was Mrs. Hudson's cooking that was affecting me thus. My fingers had felt cold as I traced their faces on the laptop screen, watching the cosy, domestic scene. I watched until my eyes burned, unable to look away until the server (or Mycroft) had booted me out of the feed.

Events after that were muddled and fuzzy for various reasons that I have chosen not to dwell upon.

John would not approve of my weakness.

Were I the sort to adopt current conventional misogynistic nomenclature, I would have said that Irene Adler was a bitch.

She wasn't of course. Unless she was being paid to be.

Yet when our paths had crossed in Laos, she had simply ensured that I was unable to hide from the fact that I enjoyed watching John to an extent that popular society would frown upon. I had been furious, because once she pointed out my proclivities; I could no longer deny what I was doing, nor why I was doing it.

Irene had contacted me through a third party, and our inevitable reunion had barely started when she took one full look at me and had frowned, as though offended. It was child's play to deduce the flicker of emotions in her steady gaze: disgust, frustration, sadness, then a very resolute anger. "Your doctor would not be pleased if he saw you like this, Sherlock." Her cold hand had tightened painfully on my shoulder as she snapped out a request for a cab. I had hit my temple rather hard on the door as she bustled me inside of the small vehicle, and had refused to look at her the entire way to her flat, feeling like a small child taken to heel by his mother.

Having a _really _unamused Dominatrix take charge of cleaning your sore, exhausted body, ensuring you slept and feeding you up was a bit of a shock to one's system, to say the least. Not to mention all sorts of unpleasant.

It had bothered me that I had woken up naked, with only a terrycloth dressing gown to be found in the room. The stale sweat of detoxing chemicals had made my nose curl, and I had stumbled into the en suite, noting that she had both my shampoo and preferred brand of soap. A tiny detail, yet one that punctured my wounded anger like a sad-looking balloon. My mind had felt like a hollowed out drum as I finished in Irene's shower and made my way to where she sat like a cat in the sun, curled up on a window seat.

Her clear gaze had taken in my sober, well-rested and quite a bit cleaner state with a bored flick of her eyelashes, and had gestured lazily at the counter of her kitchen. I don't know why I had expected a brief respite, but the bloody woman had not even allowed me my second sip of coffee before she spoke.

"A voyeur, darling? Surely that's much too much kink for someone as innocent as yourself..." The Woman simply stared at me, one eyebrow cocked high in acknowledgement of her well-placed verbal salvo. It might have well been a bomb given my reaction. In a very strange way, she had reminded me of John; unamused and full of sentiment at the state in which I found myself. Kirill's little chemical bump had become one more way to punish myself, as excuse after excuse became yet another reason to enjoy the brief respite of my endless, whirling thoughts.

I had frozen like the proverbial deer in the headlights, not missing the small smirk of her reaction. My hand had fumbled the mug of coffee, spilling it. The burn had caused me to hiss with pain and I found myself overwhelmed, stunned in place like an utter idiot, staring at her with wide eyes.

She hadn't spoken of it further, but the word knocked about in my skull on endless repeat.

"I... A. A voyeur is someone who receives sexual gratification from..." I trailed off at the look on Irene's face, completely cowed by her derision.

"Are you actually trying to explain yourself? How very interesting." She had stood, and I had watched her stalk closer to me, not put off at all by the soft day-dress she wore instead of her customary leather and boots.

Oh I had tried to put her off of course, to focus on why I was there. The trouble was realizing that the "third party" who had forced our reunion had done so for _my_ own good, rather than any desire to further decimate Moriarty's web of crime. Obvious of course now that my head was clear. Bloody Mycroft. I shudder to think of the text these two must have sent- both about my proclivities and recent drugs use. It had been moronic of me to think I had fooled my elder sibling into thinking I truly believed Irene was dead. John had been laughingly simple- avoiding the topic so as to not inadvertently hurt me. Mycroft had to have known what I was doing that cold night when I had left London to go save the Woman in front of me. Even more troubling than deducing that these two were texting each other about my welfare was the wholly unwelcome realization that I _cared._

"Hm, well I propose a little experiment then, shall we?" Irene didn't wait for my answer, crossing the rest of the room and climbing up into my lap with hardly a break in her stride.

I had been so stunned at the sudden contact of her body, the warmth, her scent, that it had not even occurred to me to dump her off my lap by the simple expedient of standing up. I could not imagine the look on my face, yet Irene seemed quite amused by it as she grabbed my wrist with one hand and the back of my neck with the other. When she spoke she did so by looking directly into my gaze.

I suppose I was grateful that she was at least clothed this time. Foolishly, I had attempted brazen it out. 'What experiment?"

In answer she smiled, refusing to look away. "John Watson."

My pulse jumped of course. How could it not? Her smile turned smug as she felt my reaction under her fingers.

"Don't be shy, darling. You're the one who taught me this trick after all. Your brother has told me of your little obsession. He worries, I'm told. He wanted me to point out the foolishness of watching your Doctor at all hours of the day, and to remind you that your weakness is not an advantage here." Irene cocked her head, her thighs tight against my own. "I suppose that means something to you?"

I had just swallowed, painfully. My throat had made a dry click. It did, but that wasn't any of her business.

"Answer me." Her voice was a weapon, sharp and painful.

To my shock, the words tumbled from my throat. "I am not a..." I faltered. Talking about the sexual actions of others never bothered me. Talking about my own to _this_ woman was horrifying. "A... voyeur. I have never gotten off while watching John." I thought the crudity of my statement would shock her. Stupid of me, really. She had been delighted.

"Just because you haven't_ 'gotten off_', doesn't mean that you haven't desperately wanted to." Her saying that of course made me picture it; and to my utter humiliation, my body reacted much as it usually did when I watched John. Images of John arched on our settee flooded my mind, the picture of his cock in the circle of his hand, red and wet and coming.

Irene didn't brush her body against me, although she had to have felt my reaction through the terrycloth. She didn't even drop her gaze from my own, although now she was so close I couldn't see the expression on her face. The hand on the back of my neck continued to hold me steady, while her grip on my wrist continued to take my pulse, monitoring any lie that I told. It was damnably effective.

"Interesting." She held me there a moment longer and backed off, giving me space and going on into her bedroom to dress for the day.

I don't know why I had thought she would leave it at that. To say that she forced the issue was ridiculous of course, given that I could have gotten up, or left the flat at any time.

The next few days were predictably dull. I was at a rather frustrating stand-still, having had absolutely no luck in finding Moriarty's next in command. There were whispers of a name, but nothing that either of us could confirm. I had no experiments to fill my time; neither did I have the occupation of my assigned tasks. To put it mildly, I was bored out of my bloody mind.

Irene was perfectly pleasant- until I stubbornly refused to eat. Then her rather... particular personality came out in full force. It was much easier to just eat.

Boring.

I suppose that had been her plan- to lure me into a false sense of security. It was disgustingly domestic- Irene working on her own agenda, and me checking up on my various aliases. Then all at once it wasn't.

Granted, I had not been at my best when I stumbled into the lounge, bleary-eyed after an attempt at sleep filled with nightmares and what-ifs, but seeing Irene perched on the arm of the chair, watching my laptop with a strangely intense gaze, but I still hadn't realized what she had planned.

Until I heard John's gasp.

I had frozen for just a moment, eyes narrowing as I took in the scene. Her cold smile, the way her eyebrow was ticked at a perfect angle. Furiously, I leaped forward to grab the laptop. Stupid, as she took advantage of my flailing gesture to jerk me off-balance so that I fell into the chair. I was too caught by the images on the screen to stop my forward momentum. In a flash she was behind me, the laptop on the table in front of the two of us.

Data.

Younger man, in his late 20's, ink stains on his left forefinger, some kind of bureaucratic position. It was hard to... It was desperately difficult to concentrate. I watched, unable to care that Irene was gleefully taking in my reaction like the climax of her favourite telly programme as I saw the man kiss John, saw John jerk away from his mouth and push him so the younger man was flush against the wall. John's body slammed into his with a low grunt, and the man turned his head so that they could kiss once more. John avoided his mouth, kissing under his neck instead.

Jealousy was a bright, agonizing flare, taking away my breath. The man was as far from my body type as could be imagined, young and fit, tan, slightly shorter than John with very light blonde hair. I tried to look away from the scene from Mycroft's feed, feeling the sickening shame flood my extremities, causing my stomach to flutter unpleasantly. I was terribly, desperately aware that I was hard in my trousers, throbbing and over-stimulated as I watched the two of them fuck. This was so, so much more than a bit not good. John would not want _me _of all people to see him...

Irene's fingers tightened on my chin, the leather strangely cool against the stubble I had been much too lazy to groom away. I could hear the scrape, loud over the sound of my suddenly increased breathing. "No, Mr. Holmes. You will watch every second. Look at him. _Watch_."

I watched, a slight shudder overtaking me as I observed John kicking the other man's legs apart. Dimly, as though from a great distance away, I could hear Irene's soft breaths. She had arranged herself behind me, carefully not touching me with any part of her body, except the strong grip of her fingers on my chin. It didn't occur to me until much later that I didn't, not once, try to avoid where she directed my attention.

"You're pulse is rapid, your cock is hard in your trousers, your breathing is ... lovely. I can hear how much you want him. Listen, Mr. Holmes, _listen_ to him. Listen to yourself."

My eyes had opened slowly. I hadn't even been aware that I had shut them. Every word that she said was brutally honest. John hadn't even stripped either one of them. His face was buried in the nameless man's shoulder, his fingers wrapped around the other man's wrist as he pushed them into the wall. I could see the flex of his buttocks as he thrust into the man's arse; hear the cries and the grunts that filled the laptop's speakers. My own breath was tremendously harsh, almost high-pitched with a wheeze that I couldn't seem to control.

"Your brother wanted me to shame you into stopping your little obsession, Sherlock."

I let out a small cry at the way she hissed the syllabant sound of my name, jerking in her grip. All of my attention was trained on watching the way the man bit his lip, pushing back into John's thrusts.

"What he fails to understand is that there_ is no shame_ in enjoying him. You have done everything for this man. Do you think your doctor would be disgusted to know that he has your attention? _Use_ that lovely brain of yours, Sherlock. John Watson has done everything in his power to keep your attention on _him_."

I could ignore the other man and focus on John, biting my lip as I watched the flex of muscle in his small, compact frame. Dimly I was aware of her footsteps as she walked away, and in a flash I fumbled for the zip on my trousers, desperate to finish with John, to share some kind of intimacy with him- as stolen as it was. My hand shook as I tightened around myself, hips arching into the tight grip of my hand. My half-strangled groan of John's name had echoed loudly in the room, mingled with John's grunt as he finished, biting at the man's clothed shoulder.

It took me several minutes to regain my breath. I had flushed when I realized that Irene had left a damp flannel near the chair, and wiped myself down, then quickly managed to tuck myself back in my pants and zip up before Irene came back with her bloody camera phone.

Bangladesh was, not to put too fine a point on it, where I realized everything I had done was useless. As John would say, a complete clusterfuck.

Irene kept in contact with me periodically, often when rumours of Moriarty's man surfaced. Not knowing was absolutely, utterly intolerable. Everything that I had done for John, for Lestrade and for Mrs. Hudson was to draw out this singular- was he singular? Was it a he even? I had no data, and no data was unacceptable. No data meant that John wasn't safe and that? That was... no. _Not_ acceptable.

I scrubbed my hands through my shortened hair in frustration, pacing around the small single room where I was currently living. The cocaine would be no help whatsoever. Irene had managed where my own conscience had failed. Irene had seen to my detox and I was quite frankly less than willing to go through that again, yet I could still feel the itchy, twitching feel of my blood in my veins. It pushed me to act, to do something. Anything.

Watching John was my one constant. Hours upon hours. Not even my brother's increasingly pissy texts deterred me. When he changed the servers, it practically invited me to hack the feeds again. Over the past months some cameras had been removed and others added, so at least I knew Mycroft's surveillance was continuous.

John wasn't doing well.

He'd stopped dating... or socializing, aside from Mrs. Hudson. After his... encounter with the nameless man John hadn't brought anyone else to the flat. It made it impossible to deduce whether or not this was a common occurrence. Had John simply been intoxicated? Had it been John's first time with a male partner? The level of skill (remembered and obsessed over until even I had to call a halt to my ability of recall) he had possessed made me think that John was not a stranger to his bisexuality.

(And if so, why not _me_? Why would John not have acted when I displayed clear signs of attraction? Obvious. Friends. Not attracted to my idiosyncrasies.)

He grew thinner. Spent more time in the flat. Sent Mrs. Hudson away with more and more frequency.

A lead- a whisper of a name- had sent my focus into the dregs of the criminal underworld. I am sure that Sally Donovan and her sideshow monkey Anderson would not be shocked to discover that I felt nothing with killing those men and women. Each life that I took meant that I was closer to coming home to Baker Street. To John. As was my habit, I had gone several days without sleeping.

Several days without checking on John.

The feed connected without an issue. John was in the lounge, in the process of lifting my violin case from its customary spot on the bookshelf. John set it down with a small click, his breathing heavy in the otherwise silent room. I watched as his steady hands unlocked the two clasps, opening the case with a small whine of the old wood. I felt my lips soften into something ridiculous as I watched him. His face was turned away, but I could clearly see his fingers brush the glossy surface, and felt my smile turn a bit wistful as John plucked a note. I doubt that he knew it was horribly flat.

"Oh, Sherlock."

Hearing my name caused my breath to catch. John sounded—he sounded. _God_. I was so stunned that I missed watching John turn to sit on the couch. Was so focused on the man that I missed the obvious signs: the neat clothing, the tidy room, the scrap of paper folded with military precision on the corner of the table.

All at once I understood. It came to me with a twitch; so clear in my head that it was almost like it had been written there in three-inch Johnston Underground font.

I jerked so violently that the laptop slid off of my lap and onto the floor, cracking the screen and booting me out of the feed. I fumbled, landing hard on my knees and logging in again, mistyping the password twice in my haste. No. _No_, it couldn't ... no. _John_.

My _phone_. Mycroft. He could... I texted on autopilot, cursing under my breath, staring hard at the indicator as the feed loaded.

[Text sent: 29 December, 2013, 3:00 am]

**-JOHN DANGER RESPODN 221B IMMEDIATELY**

The feed loaded, my heart stopped in my chest when I saw John, looking down at his gun. He was sitting with perfect military posture, one hand on his thigh, the other holding the sig so that his wrist was cocked on his knee. I watched as he looked around, observed the way his mouth trembled. My gravesite. His mouth had looked like that before he begged me for a miracle.

I was dialling before I could even think about what I was doing.

I was afraid to blink, to look away even for a moment. With Henry Knight, it had been about the puzzle, about showing him what I had learned before he pulled the trigger in his mania and fear. John had later told me that I had done something very much good, and the little niggle of guilt had been hard to ignore. I hadn't talked Knight out of it for _Knight_. I had done it for The Work.

With John, I simply shut down. Every ounce of sentiment; every single thing that I was feeling was caught in this one moment. I heard John's phone ringing from where it sat next to his-

(_Second leading cause of death, males 25-40. John. Suicide Note, More than half of all suicides completed with a firearm, PTSD, Oh John no, emotionally unstable to the point of acute depression NonoNO.)_

-note. His _note_, Christ.

John's face seemingly collapsed in on itself, crumbling into despair as he heard the ring. I was shaking so hard that I had to clutch the already cracked plastic, terrified that if I dropped it he wouldn't pick up.

Would he answer? I had no data.

I watched his shoulders hunch, watched as his gaze looked down to the gun he held. The fingers tightened around the handle and I heard the click of John's voicemail.

"Fuck! _John_!" My voice cracked. I hit redial. Helpless. I heard the ping of Mycroft's return text but couldn't look, couldn't bear to rip my gaze from John's face for one second.

I watched John's wrist relax. He carefully set the gun on the coffee table with a click that made the both of us flinch. I saw the glistening of tears as they tracked down his face. He reached out blindly for the phone and picked it up, answering without looking at the display.

"Hello?" His voice. Fucking _Christ_, his voice. So calm, utterly devoid of any emotion. No clue to the emotional upheaval he was experiencing.

I choked, unable to speak. I had to clear my throat, and even then only a whisper made it past my paralyzed throat. That gun. It was much, much too close to his hand.

"John."

John's eyes snapped open. His whole body went rigid, as though he had gotten an electric shock. Even as distraught as he was, my John had no trouble recognizing my whispered voice.

_"Sherlock?"_

**-Now-**

John was having a perfectly lovely dream. Mad as fucking hell of course, but it was rather lovely. It was the strangest thing. John was sitting in his chair, holding their Union Jack pillow in his lap. He was naked and strange, black marks were painted all over his body. When he looked directly at them though, they swirled and dipped with blood.

Sherlock sat lounged in his blue dressing gown, draped over their settee in his customary swoon. He was looking up at the ceiling of the abandoned warehouse like it held all the answers to all the questions in the world.

John started to feel horribly embarrassed by his nakedness, but Sherlock seemed utterly oblivious. "Sherlock?"

"Dull, dull, _dull_!" Sherlock flailed his ridiculously long limbs, looking like an insect that had been flipped up over on its back for a moment, before he swung himself around to sit on the centre of the settee, legs open and bony elbows resting on his knees. Sherlock ran his fingers through his curly mop of curls in a way that John refused to find endearing. "This is _tedious_, John. You must _think_. I cannot do this for you. Come now, you recognize this place, surely?"

One of the black marks began to burn with agony. John bit his lip so that he wouldn't cry out as it throbbed. He faltered, thoughts scattering like crumbs in a hurricane as the pain took his breath away.

Sherlock knew though. Sherlock always knew. John blinked open his eyes, widening them a little when he saw that Sherlock had moved to his knees in front of where John sat, the cold concrete seemingly not bothering him at all. Sherlock's hands were warm against John's skin as he bent over the mark. His breath caused the hair on John's leg to stand straight up and John froze as Sherlock hovered over the black swirling mass of agony, staring down at the curly head in shock.

"You must. Tell me, John. You have to tell me." Sherlock's voice was at least a full octave lower than his normal speaking voice. John's mouth went dry. He felt his cheeks flush and his stomach went all funny at the intensity in the deep voice. Somehow, Sherlock's proximity was keeping the pain at bay. Having Sherlock's complete focus was shocking in and of itself. The fact that his cock was well more than half-hard was just ... _god_. What had Sherlock said? Shit! He was meant to be focusing!

Tell him what? John's cheeks burned as his cock pressed into the fabric of the pillow. His hips shifted nervously in his seat. God, Sherlock would know. He would know _everything_.

"My..."

Sherlock's lips brushed the unblemished skin next to the weird mark. John's groan was loud in the warehouse.

Oh. The warehouse. That's... oh. _Ohhh_.

John's eyes snapped open as his back bowed with pain. One blink. Two, and he realized exactly where he was.

"Sh'ck," John moaned, biting at his lips to keep the scream behind his teeth. His fucking shoulder. Jesus, Mary, John, Paul George and Ringo. He hadn't been certain that it had hurt this much when he was _shot_.

There was something wrong with his lips. They felt frozen, and he couldn't move them as they should have gone. Stroke? Perhaps. Mental trauma, certainly. That dream had felt fucking real and it hurt to know that Sherlock wasn't there with him. In a way, that hurt as much as his body.

"My... 'h'se," he slurred. Shit. He had to try better. "House."

When he saw Moran step into his line of sight, John couldn't help the full-body flinch. Moran bent down and kissed the burns he'd inflicted in a gross parody of what Sherlock had done; only Moran did it with as much pain as possible, pressing his teeth into the fragile flesh so that John's breath caught in his throat.

Fuck. Fuck, _fuck_.

"You know? This is a bit disappointing. I thought for sure he'd find you by now. The great Sherlock Holmes is a bit fucked up when his trusty sidekick has been... well. Kicked." Moran snorted. "Jim told me that no matter what, I had to finish his last dance. Details, details, details. Borrr-ring!" A small fleck of John's blood was caught in Moran's spittle, and John was terribly afraid that if he looked at it much longer it wouldn't matter if Sherlock found him or not; he'd be utterly mad and it wouldn't matter.

John licked his dry lips, turning his face away from Moran's foul breath. He wasn't sure if it was more disturbing that Moran sounded like Moriarty when he spoke, or the thought that Moriarty had planned for John's demise from beyond the grave. John wanted to beg for Moran to stop, but his lips still felt strange. Tingly, as though he had been electrocuted. For all John knew, he had been.

Moran had other ideas though. He gently turned John's face back towards his. John didn't even have time to brace himself before Moran shifted his weight, pulling on John's dislocated shoulder. John heard something pop and the sudden flare of pain was so bright that he passed out completely, grateful for the respite.

No memories of Sherlock when he woke up. John was cold, curled up on himself. He was still naked but could have cared less. It took him a few moments to realize that he wasn't on the gurney.

Instead, he was back in the box. In a way, it was comforting, knowing that Moran wasn't there with him. John was so dizzy; so tired. He forced himself to sit up and winced when his fingers brushed against the wall with the electrical current. It was a lower-grade shock, but it was, literally, a shock to John's already pain-wracked system. He heard the small, hurt sound he made and hated himself for it.

John shifted rather gingerly. His foot brushed something at the far corner of the box, and John squinted, trying to see what it was. It almost felt- Could he... trust what his senses were telling him?

John inched away from the wall, desperately thrilled that he wasn't still tied up. His toes struck the object again, and John lurched, unaware that the high-thready sound he heard buzzing in his ears was coming from his own throat.

It was his Sig.

His shoulder was so fucked that it was bloody impossible to raise the weapon with his gun hand, but he was able to check blindly, and did so. The realization that Moran had left him with only one bullet caused John to drop the gun and scuttle back to the opposite corner, as far back from it as he could go.

Time had to have stopped.

John had no other explanation. The hot wall didn't burn all the time, but it kept John from shivering at least. He knew, vaguely that he had stopped sweating, that his body was too dehydrated to produce fluid.

He was terribly thirsty.

It was impossible to ignore the gun. Its presence was both a comfort and just another torture. It seemed almost kind of Moran to give John an out. But ... no. Moran had worked his and Sherlock's security detail. Moran knew very well what John had almost done.

Dimly, John became aware of some kind of commotion outside.

Moran was coming back for him.

John felt his resolve solidify. He would do this. There was one bullet, and John Watson knew how to make it count. That sodding little worm thought that he would just off himself? Take some easy way out of his pain? Fuck that. John would bide his time, would make sure that his one bullet was used right; lodged right between Moran's eyes.

When the top of his box was thrown open, John was blind. He'd only had a split-second to aim before his eyes were bombarded by the light. His finger squeezed the trigger. It was perhaps, then, extremely unfortunate that once his eyes adjusted to the change, John saw that instead of Moran's cruel grin, Sherlock's shocked, pale face stared down at him, his eyes wide.

John felt his heart stop. Was he... was this another dream? John watched, dumb with shock as blood beaded up on Sherlock's cheek, his shot having grazed the pale skin over Sherlock's prominent cheekbone. He simply could not make himself move.

"I never thought that I'd say this, John but I am rather glad your aim is utter shit." Sherlock held out his trembling hand to John, pale fingers curling around his own in a grip that was much, much too tight. "Now come on. I think your little adventure is." Sherlock's voice cracked. He coughed, clearing his throat. "Over."

TBC!

(ps, thanks for reading! 3)


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: warnings for vomit? idek. Thanks to Thatworldinverted and Diva0789 for the beta, Purplewarpaint for the Britpick and jlm for the everything. **

**-Before-**

"Come with me, sir."

Of course they were here for me. No matter that I had successfully been in hiding for several months, Mycroft always had the ability to put his thumb right on my pulse whenever he wished to do so. I had long ago been disabused of the notion that my elder sibling was omnipotent, but I had to admit that this _was_ rather impressive.

The female agent smiled politely at me. I took in the sleepless night, the small run in her tights, the two pieces of white cat hair on her sleeve with a bored flick of my eyes. "I'm Agent Moss. This is my partner, Agent-"

I snorted. "Dull." I stood much too quickly and faltered a little as vertigo caused my head to swim. "My brother had no doubt informed you of his wishes." I jerked away from Agent Moss as unobtrusively as possible. Which, given my lack of sleep and the amount of stimulants- all legal, unfortunately- in my bloodstream was not very unobtrusively at all. I barked my shin rather painfully against the small seat. My seatmate, a woman who had been blessedly silent for the entire trip looked up briefly from her novel, meeting my eyes for only a moment before flicking away: the dismissal of the painfully uncurious.

Once the nameless agent saw that Agent Moss had me well in hand, he left to secure transportation. Ridiculous. Where did they think that I would go, if not to my- to John? Using the transportation provided by my brother was the most efficient way possible to reach my goals.

Still, the wait from here to there was indeterminable. The grey streets, the furious tempo of the traffic, the murmured conversation between the two agents, my London seemed tired and tremendously tedious as I waited to arrive at our destination. To John. The male agent's gaze met mine in the rear-view mirror and I forced my leg to remain still, jerking my gaze away to rest on the small rucksack that held my change of clothes and laptop. I suppose it was a testament to my shock that I hadn't remembered even gathering my belongings from the baggage claim. The male agent was, no doubt, a colossal idiot (he willingly worked with my brother after all), but I would give him no further ammunition to report to my utter git of a brother. I took a deep breath, and another, wishing rather feebly for a cigarette.

I was as jittery as I had ever been while using. I touched the small packet in my pocket. Traveling with it on an international flight on my person had been perhaps a bit of a risk, but the comfort was immeasurable: knowing that I could take it at any moment, yet had the willpower to not succumb to my weakness kept me calm. Well. Many had often scoffed at the logic of an addict. Still, it was a heavy weight that allowed me to focus my thoughts on the endless cycle of _why _and _how _in which I had found myself since calling John.

It had simply never occurred to me that John would choose to end his own life in such a dramatic fashion. Admittedly, sentiment was not my area- I almost smiled at the obviousness of my inner thought- but with John I had foolishly believed myself to be an expert. I simply could not fathom how the man I had left had sunk to such a state of abject depression. Oh there had been signs, for certain. But I was as guilty as Anderson in this. I had observed, but I had not _seen._

And that incompetence was unforgivable.

"Mr. Holmes?"

I blinked. I was not immediately certain of where we had stopped. All I could see from around the Agent's body was the fall of cold rain splashing on the filthy pavement. She held an umbrella over the open door so that I could step out without becoming immediately drenched. I did appreciate the small kindness and attempted to smile my thanks.

The agent's eyes widened behind her glasses at whatever expression I had managed. Ah. I would do best to remember to leave the small, meaningless gestures of comfort to those who knew best how to use them.

It was not lost on me that I was stalling.

I bent back inside the black car to snag the strap of my rucksack and shoved it onto my shoulder, then turned, allowing myself one more deep breath. The fact that my fingers were gripping the strap tightly enough to restrict the blood flow was unimportant.

"Let's go, Mr. Holmes." I quirked an eyebrow at Agent Moss' brusque tone. The shift of her body showed her uneasiness at being out in the open and I complied with her wishes, walking quickly to the nondescript door.

I forced my shoulders from their slump, jerking my chin up into some semblance of a show of courage. Ten steps later I was inside. Agent Moss started to make some comment, no doubt for me to wait for my brother's arrival, but it was easy enough to ignore as I glanced around the room.

Scuff marks on the non-descript beige paint near the bannister. Fingerprints, the hand that had gripped it last had been quite sweaty. Small smear of blood. Perhaps bloodied knuckles? Not enough data. A blink and I was up the steps. It was child's play to deduce where Mycroft was keeping John. Only one door out of the three was shut.

I allowed myself a breath as I pressed my fingertips to the wood of the door. I did not know how to categorize the whirling, utterly _useless_ emotions that caused my stomach to clench with nausea. Frankly, I had no wish to. Naming them only made them more real after all. Yet I could not discount my... apprehension.

I had imagined meeting John after my absence in many ways. He would be angry of course. Obvious. Whatever control that made him the ideal doctor and soldier left him completely when he was furious enough. Early on in our acquaintance, I had attempted to deduce exactly how long it took for John to go from placid apathy to cold fury, but there had been too many unexpected factors that marred that particular experiment.

I did not care for it when John was angry at me. Our flat, which at all other times had seemed perfectly adequate for our needs, would shrink to an almost unbearable space where John's presence was too big, too disapproving. Oh, there had been moments where I could ignore his fury, and goodness knows I was not reticent at defending whatever action had set him off, yet the tensions in the too-small flat would make me... uncomfortable. John's livid gaze would follow me to my Mind Palace, and any work I did there was nearly impossible to complete with my usual brilliance. After only a few moments, I would find myself attempting to make amends for my oversight, disgusted at my own need to fix whatever I had cocked up, eager to make John's face relax into the fond amusement that usually prevailed.

I could not fathom how this man had such a hold over me. So, anger. Expected. Likely.

Deserved.

I flexed my fingers on the door and took a deep breath, reaching slowly for the doorknob.

When the door jerked open under my grip I was completely unprepared. I flinched, my whole body jerking in place as I my gaze tried to take in every single nuance of John at once.

Wet trainers; cuffs. Just in out of the rain then. Not at this location for long. The jeans were baggy on his too-thin frame. He wore a t-shirt and ancient-looking RAMC sweatshirt, ratty and stretched out at the elbows and collar. So, worn for comfort. I had been correct about the bloody knuckles. The second distal interphalangeal joint on John's right hand had a contusion that was bleeding slightly from split skin. His eyes were wide, his face perfectly blank as though he was unsure if what he was seeing was quite real. Lip swollen. Eyes bloodshot, exhausted circles under his eyes. Hair was flat on one side, as though forced to lie in one position for...

I flinched again as John shifted, expecting a punch, only to freeze in place when John's arms came around me, jerking me to him with an abrupt movement.

Oh _god_.

John's touch. My throat was burning, swollen so tightly that I couldn't make a voluntary sound if I wanted to. I could smell him; feel the heat from his body as my arms came up to clutch at his back. It was too much. Too much data. I shut my eyes and hung on tighter, unable and unwilling to sort through the multitudinous amount of information with which I was presented.

I heard an echoed strangled sound and John clutched me tighter to him, almost jerking me off-balance with the strength of his embrace.

Touching him after so long, after so much worry and confusion... I could not categorize how necessary this man's presence was to my own continued existence. I could feel his rapid heartbeat against my sternum. It was unfathomable to me that I had only fantasized about touching John in exactly this way, that this was only our first embrace. Lost in my own imaginings, I turned my head so that my lips brushed against the collar of his jumper, skating softly over the warm skin there.

John jerked in place. I felt his arms tighten in reflex then fall to his side. It took quite a few seconds before I could make myself do the same, before I realized that John's rigidity was not the same relief that I was feeling but the cold, infuriated anger from before.

_Fuck_.

I was here clutching him to my bosom like some mad heroine and John...? A blink settled some of the whirling data to where I could comb over it at my leisure. I dropped my arms, feeling tediously awkward. Blood flooded my cheeks. This was Sebastian all over again; me missing some social nuance that caused others' amusement.

Only, John? John was far from amused.

The fist came out of nowhere. I was so overwhelmed at the onslaught of my reaction that I was utterly unprepared for the sharp shot to my lip. I staggered back, dropping my rucksack and tripping back over my own feet in a gangly sprawl that sent the back of my head rocking sharply against the wooden frame of the door.

Another jerk on my hoodie and I was pulled inside, dizzy and confused, yet completely unable to defend myself. Unwilling. This was the least of the apology that John was owed for everything that I had done. All of the reasons- Moriarty's plan, Moran's thumb on the pulse of the three people that I cared for the most, jumping from St. Bart's- that I had clung to like some sort of righteous absolution faded in the face of his anger.

Dimly I heard the door kicked shut as John manhandled me inside. My arms and legs refused to work properly, my hard drive completely offline as my back slammed up against the now closed door. John kicked at my feet, his grip on my wrists brutal as he pressed them into the hard surface behind me, slotting against me so that my pelvis was pressed against his hip.

John's mouth was open just slightly as he clenched his teeth, his breath hot against my lower jaw as he held me in place.

My mind was blessedly blank as I licked at the blood on my lower lip, nervously waiting for John's anger to tip over to something more savage; something that I would have to defend myself against.

I was utterly floored when John's gaze dropped to my mouth, before jerking guiltily back up to my own. I opened my mouth to speak, only to close it when John tightened his grip on my wrists. I swallowed hard, the two of us staring at each other, neither willing to speak.

I was humiliated to discover that I was completely hard and throbbing in my jeans, pressing unflinchingly against John's hip. I shut my eyes, afraid to move or react. This was so, so out of my depth.

There was a knock on the door.

John sprang away from me as though electrocuted. I swallowed hard, wincing when I heard Mycroft's uncharacteristically chipper, "Sherlock, do join me downstairs when you and the good doctor have..." The tubby ponce actually chuckled. "Caught up."

The idea that Mycroft had actually made his own way up the steps in order to further humiliate me should not have come as a surprise. He had people for that after all. I stood there, feeling every single place John had touched me tingle and burn and tried to exert some small attempt at controlling myself.

Sanding here with a highly inappropriate erection with my brother on the other side of the door like some smug, fat spider was not exactly something with which I had any practice. As calmly as I could I walked to the window. The blackout curtains let in no light, but it afforded me some pathetic illusion of privacy as I focused on nothing. The click of the door opening and the furious flurry of John's footsteps as he ran down the stairs should not have come as a surprise. Mycroft's slower, heavier step followed, leaving me along to collect myself.

I was left alone, reeling with such an influx of data that I had very little recourse. My fingertips brushed against the baggie of powder in my pocket and I hissed out a breath as control slowly returned. I walked to the attached en suite and splashed water on my face, ignoring the two bright red flags of colour high on my cheekbones. My mouth was indeed bleeding, and the cool water felt lovely against the heated, bruised flesh. I pushed back the hoodie and ran my wet fingers through my unwashed hair, attempting some order. There was a glass near the tap and I filled it, drinking, watching in the mirror as my hands slowly stopped trembling.

Downstairs, John had obviously moved from livid to resigned as he stared down at a file of information on his lap. My idiot of a brother hovered behind him, swirling a small finger of whiskey in the tumbler like one of the overly-dramatic villains in the Bond films that John had insisted I watch with him, months before I had left.

I did not fool myself that either man was unaware of my presence as I crossed to the chair furthest from John and flopped down in the dramatic sprawl, refusing to wince when my bruises met the uncomfortable upholstery. John became almost wooden as he froze in place, staring resolutely down at the file.

"Well. Isn't this cosy."

Mycroft would do well to remember that the hard-won skill set from the past months now included the best way to hide a body. I huffed an annoyed breath. I caught the roll of Mycroft's eyes and the small spasm on John's face- the aborted smirk before he remembered that he was furious at me.

The silence continued, dragged on until I was considering saying some offhand, acerbic comment just to break the tedium. It was strange that I found myself unable to settle, to ignore my brother and John's presence enough to filter through the barrage of data presented to me from the last... I checked the time on my cracked phone.

No. Surely not. I could _not_ have only been here for twenty-three minutes.

Mycroft straightened his shoulders, lips twitching in a sickly smirk. "Well. Sherlock. I am certain that you will find the Doctor's story... intriguing. No doubt the two of you have much to discuss. However given your... companion's proclivities for using his fists, I believe I shall just continue to work on a small matter over here."

"Laters," I muttered, not even close to being under my breath. I noticed Mycroft's pained twitch and almost looked to see John's reaction, before the fact that he was sitting painfully still in the armchair registered.

John blinked at me, his gaze going from my bruised mouth, sliding slowly over the thin hoodie and tattered jeans. My own trainers were filthy, covered in the muck and detritus from god knew where. He had a good view of them from my ungainly sprawl, and I had to check my first reaction, which was to curl up in a less open position. I had to check my second reaction too, which was to start to beg forgiveness for everything.

And my third which was to strangle the fucking stupid bastard for daring to attempt to harm what was mi-what I had done everything, _every. thing._ to keep safe. I kept my gaze on the carpet, unsure I had the acting ability to keep my rage off of my face. Not for this. Not for someone, some_thing_ so important. I was just exhausted enough, confused and sick enough to do something so much more than a bit not good.

Only my brother could make the act of sitting down and texting someone sound disapproving. His small, discreet cough was fooling no one. Git. Still, it kept me on my side of the room instead of blubbing at John's feet like an utter idiot.

"Someone tried to blow up Mrs. Hudson's flat." John's voice, once he finally spoke sent a shiver up my spine. It wasn't his normal speaking voice, but a lower, much more tense sound that made no bones about how fragile his emotional state was. Even I could deduce that with my laughable understanding of sentiment. My neck popped when I turned to look at my friend. He did not meet my eyes, looking instead down at the plain folder on his knees with an unwavering gaze.

I opened my mouth, speaking before I had thought through the ramifications. "Yes, yes. I am aware."

John's gaze jerked up to meet mine as he worked out that I had been watching him. I knew that there was no way, _no wa_y that John could know exactly what I had been doing, but the embarrassment from my act, the remembered rush of sexual gratification I had received from watching him made my own cheeks burn with shame.

"Yes, well, Sherlock did insist on keeping a rather keen eye on you, Dr. Watson." He paused, deliberately. "Much to our shared relief, in fact. Or your Mrs Hudson would be cleaning your grey matter off her rather alarming wallpaper." He crossed his legs, tapping away at his phone. "Continue."

Mycroft's placid reminder did rather take the wind out of John's sails. I'm certain that defending me was physically painful, but it didn't seem as though he'd need to remove the stick jammed up his overlarge arse in order to enjoy the small triumph he'd scored on John.

John winced and sighed, pinching the top of his nose. The last time I'd seen it was when his sister had called him, drunk and sobbing. It made my stomach give a funny sort of wiggle which I resolutely ignored.

"Two weeks later, I received a post in the mail. Fairly innocuous, nothing too spectacular. A phone. Not fancy. In fact it didn't even allow texts. I hadn't even realized that the bloody thing was there until Mrs H heard it ringing and brought me the package." John shifted in his seat. There was only one number in the call log, and I was... curious enough to press it and see."

Of course he was. The John from right after I jumped had been heartsick with grief. The same bit of intrigue I had offered him, the same hint of danger must have called to him like a siren. My own eyes narrowed as I waited for him to finish.

"A recording. It." John tilted his chin up staring from me to Mycroft with the fearless, brave gaze of a soldier reporting actions unbecoming. "He told me that I had a week to off myself. That Mrs Hudson, Harry and Mike Sanford would be murdered if I did not comply with his wishes."

What?

No.

That was..._ no._

My whole body went hot, then cold. My heart, such as it was, stopped in my chest as I stared, wide-eyed at John.

John wasn't quite meeting my gaze, staring at a spot on the wall between both Mycroft and myself. "He called it a trade. A ... final solution. The people I cared most about in the world would be... safe. And I would be..."

"_John_."

Was that my voice? Even Mycroft looked slightly startled at the unrestrained sentiment that I could not control.

I felt it before I saw it. Months of keeping myself on edge paid off in a reflex that was so ingrained that I had slammed into John's chair, sending both of us arse over teakettle before it happened:

A low _whummmmmp _that sucked the air out of the room, igniting the oxygen in blue fire as the safehouse exploded around us.

Chaos. I heard screams, furious orders barked out with running feet pounding into the lounge where we sat. A bright burst of pain in my head as something struck me. The heat was oppressive, burning my lungs from the inside out. The last thing I heard was John's scream of my name as I collapsed on top of him.

**-Now-**

The voices were muted, almost indistinct as though John were listening from the opposite end of a long corridor.

"Absolutely_ not._ It's laughable that you actually think that I will ever be able to-"

"Sherlock, I am afraid that this is non-negotiable. You are more than aware of how many siblings I posses. I will simply not allow-"

John shifted slightly on his bed, trying to keep himself absolutely still by instinct. The voices got louder, then softer, the two men's low hisses slowly becoming more and more distinctive. John's head felt muzzy, packed in wool. He recognized the feeling of being drugged to his eyeballs and enjoyed the floaty feeling for a moment before Sherlock's tight hiss made him refocus.

"I am certain that I do not need to remind you of what you allowed to happen-"

"Yes. A regrettable-"

"Regrettable!"

John couldn't help the slight snort at Sherlock's outrage. It was such a familiar sound. The voices stopped immediately. There was a footstep, the sound of something scraping on the lino floor as it was shoved unceremoniously out of the way, and John felt Sherlock's cold fingers wrap themselves around his hand.

At least he assumed they were Sherlock's. Certainly they weren't Mycroft's.

_Ugh._

"John? Can you open your eyes, John?"

John wasn't entirely certain that he could, actually. It seemed as though once he opened his eyes, he would have no choice but to acknowledge the incipient panic that was lurking just out of reach; a wave about to crash onto the ocean. It was much nicer to just let it all wait, to feel Sherlock's clammy grip against his own. He was so dreadfully tired.

John's eyelids felt much too heavy, like lead weights pinned to his cheeks.

The second time he awoke it was to violent spasms and helpless vomit.

The nurse was practically wringing her hands, unable to get close enough to John to assist him. John was aware of Sherlock's furious spew of words as he belittled the poor nurse.

"-really could you expect from a bare graduate from the local night-college? Did they actually _teach _you to read a medical chart? Or are you unable to fathom simple English you utter _useless_-" Sherlock clamped down on the rest of what he wanted to say as John lurched, groaning.

John's stomach cramped again. He could tell from the position of Sherlock's voice that he was behind him, supporting John's frame as he sicked up into the provided bin. Sick as he was, he could diagnose himself. Allergic reaction, compounded with nerve damage from the electrical current.

"He. Is. Allergic. To. Penicillin you utter brainless c-"

"_Sh'lock_." John slurred, miserable. He managed to squeeze Sherlock's hand and Sherlock cut off mid-syllable. He felt a flannel against his lips and was dimly aware that the nurse was running off. He hoped that she would be back with Maxolon to help with the nausea. A sledgehammer to the face. Something. _Fuck_. John swore through gritted teeth.

Dimly, John felt Sherlock's lips brush against the back of his ear, which was quite lovely actually. Sherlock was muttering under his breath, tensing when John's stomach gave an audible rumble, then relaxing when nothing came from it. John concentrated on not throwing up his kidneys while Sherlock clambered out from behind him, setting the bed so that John could remain propped up.

Sherlock crossed the room with two of his gazelle strides, emptying the bin and giving it a quick rinse, turning and reseating himself behind John before the nurse returned with the doctor. Sherlock puffed up like a wet cat when the nurse stepped too close to John.

He was much too exhausted to police Sherlock's protective behaviour. The doctor's voice droned on for a moment, then there was an injection, and nothing.

The next time John woke, it was to the sound of a crash, a muffled "_Shit!_" and the sound of a door being kicked shut. He sat up in a rush, sucking in a pained breath as his shoulder protested rather stridently with bright bursts of agony fireworking behind his eyelids.

Sherlock was standing there, motionless, staring at John with an almost painfully joyous look on his face. Now that John's head wasn't so fuzzy, the expression on Sherlock's face hit him almost viscerally; John could probably count on one hand the number of times Sherlock actually showed honest, true joy of that level. The detective was holding a ratty rucksack, his laptop, and what looked like a bag of groceries. Another bag lay spilled on the floor. Sherlock was drenched, looking somehow smaller without the familiar coat and manky scarf.

"John!" Sherlock practically bounded towards him, shoving the groceries in the general direction of the small table before bending over John with a small grin. "Try not to move. Are you thirsty? Stupid! Obvious, of course you're thirsty. I didn't trust the water in the taps, bit too much chlorine really, but I can get you something to drink in just a moment." John noticed that he very carefully did not touch John, although he seemed to have no problems dripping on him.

"Where-?" John's voice was a breathy, wrecked whisper. "What?" Oh _god_, his throat felt like he had gargled sandpaper with a chaser of broken glass. He took stock of the signals his body was sending him: muted pain, the slick feel of burnt skin under a bandage on his left thigh, the dull throb of various bruises. His shoulder had been popped back into its socket and did not hurt as much, although he could feel the strain of muscles pulled beyond their endurance, like a piece of elastic that had been stretched out too far.

Sherlock's face shut down. John had seen that blank look countless times, when Sherlock was about to say something that John would not like. It was jarring to see Sherlock shut down his facial expressions like that, even now. Even after everything he knew Sherlock was capable of. He winced, pressing on his ribs. Moran had- John jerked, gasping in shock. "Moran!"

Sherlock's large hands curled on John's shoulders, pressing him back down to the mattress. John was terribly conscious of the feel of Sherlock's thumbs brushing against his clavicles, rubbing in cold little circles. God, the man's hands were like ice. "You're safe. I've made certain that he will not find us. Shhh, now John. I'm afraid if you panic I'll be more than a bit out of my element, so I am really going to have to insist that you control yourself."

John felt his heartbeat increasing. His body broke out in sweat. Terrified, he cast his gaze around the small room, utterly confused to realize that he was no longer in the hospital. He'd known this of course, but it hit him with an almost unholy shudder that he was somewhere else, some other place where he was not in control. Like that fucking box.

"_Sher_lock." He gasped, feeling his chest tighten as a behemoth of a panic attack caused his throat to start to close. He was here, he was_ here_ with Sherlock and Sherlock wouldn't let... no, no wait._ How_ was he here with Sherlock? The question caused some of the panic to drain away. His breath gasped out again and John became aware that Sherlock was slowly running his hands up and down John's bare shoulders and arms, trying to calm him down. It was so utterly bizarre that it allowed John to focus on his lungs again, slowing his panicked breathing to something much less likely to make him hyperventilate.

All at once exhausted, John jerked out of Sherlock's hold and collapsed against the bed, shutting his eyes. "I would like some water, please."

There was a pause. The mattress shifted. "Yes. Of course." Sherlock moved away, and John heard the crumple of the bag. His mind was carefully blank. John concentrated on his breathing.

Ella's long-away voice floated to him on the remnants of drug-induced memory.

He took a deep, shaky breath. Another. Breathe in. Hold it. Count. One. Two. Three.

_Exhale._ Feel it outside of your lungs. One. Two. _Three._

"I have questions."

"Naturally." There was the sound of a cap being twisted off a bottle of water and John cracked open his eyes, not entirely sure that he wouldn't be dreaming once he focused. Sherlock held out the water to him, once again carefully keeping his distance. John took a small sip, and then almost choked when his gaze zeroed on Sherlock, as it always seemed to, like he was the only thing of any importance in any room.

John was shocked to see Sherlock pulling off the sodden jumper and toss it haphazardly in the corner, near the bathroom. John blinked, stymied, water bottle held halfway to his mouth. It struck him then, as insane as it had been with the two of them living under each other's thumb at Mycroft's safehouse (or back in Baker Street- god that seemed so far away now), John had never actually seen Sherlock all the way nude. Sherlock undid his zip and button and shimmied out of his jeans and wet pants, kicking them over to the corner. Goosebumps had broken out all over his body. John could still see that his strange, ginger curls were sopping wet, dripping down his naked back. He could no more stop himself from greedily tracking the drops of rainwater with his gaze than breathing. Whatever oxygen he had managed not to expel froze in his lungs as one particular stubborn droplet clung to the sharp wing of Sherlock's shoulder blade before falling to its death in the dimple right above Sherlock's left arse cheek.

John made an odd sound when Sherlock bent over to rummage in a small bag on the chest, then quickly hid his fascination by taking another gulp of water. He couldn't keep from staring at the dark, damp curl of hair around Sherlock's prick, unable to look away from the small rash of stubble growing back from where Sherlock had previously shaved. It was such a small detail that John had to smirk to himself. Sherlock _had _been rather busy after all; definitely too busy to worry about personal grooming.

"_Hmm_."

John jerked his gaze to Sherlock when he heard the small, pointed cough. He felt himself flush, but refused to look away as Sherlock raised his eyebrows in an obvious 'hey mate, eyes up here' gesture as he pulled a clean pair of pyjamas from the bag.

"You have no doubt deduced that we are no longer in the hospital. And before you make that face, please know that I was not about to let those imbeciles cause you further harm. My idiot brother was under the misconception that we were going to meekly go disappear in another "safe" house-_ hah!_ - and rather than waste time disabusing him of that fantastically ridiculous notion, I simply collected you and... left." He sniffed, like explaining this was beyond tedious. "Simple to call in some favors, child's play to have your doctor friend assist with the medication aspect. She even picked it up from the chemist's."

John blinked. Blinked again. Gave himself a mental slap on the face.

"You." He took a drink of water, watching as Sherlock pulled up his pyjama trousers over his bum, tightening the drawstring with a few jerks. He was shivering as he pulled on a thick sweatshirt, and the sight was so unlike the Sherlock that John knew that John completely forgot what he was going to say. He hissed when he shifted over on the mattress, forgetting for a moment the symphony of agony his sore body had composed. He carefully set the bottle of water on the bedside table.

"John! What are you-?" Sherlock almost tripped in his haste to get to the bedside.

"Look, I want to have a piss and brush my teeth. _You_ are going to eat something and then have a lie-down. You look like death and I'm too bloody tired to deal with this shit tonight." John gasped when he pulled himself to his feet. Fucking utter _hell_, was he sore. The burn on his thigh rubbed enough that bright sparks of pain lit up his nerves. John stumbled once as his balance told him in no uncertain terms that he was about to land rather spectacularly on his arse. Sherlock had him in an instant; somehow managing to not press against any of his contusions as he steadied John and helped him regain his equilibrium. Sherlock released him the very second John was steady on his bare feet.

John made his careful, slow way to the loo and pissed for what felt like an age. Sherlock knocked once as he was washing his hands, and handed him his toothbrush and toothpaste. John was exhausted, using the doorjamb to balance himself, tired enough to forego his teeth for one night. It was only the fact that his mouth felt like a gritty pub floor that had him balancing on the sink as he began to brush.

John carefully kept his mind blank as he finished, shut off the light and shuffled slowly back to the mattress. Sherlock had pulled the blackout blinds, but had left the lamp on the far side of the bed on its dimmest setting. John could smell the slightly burnt smell of toast in the air and smiled to think of Sherlock making the least labour-intensive meal he could possibly make. John slid back onto the mattress with a grateful sigh, staring up at the ceiling as Sherlock finished his own nightly routine. With a flick he turned off the lamp, knowing that Sherlock's night vision was better than some people's day vision. It was peaceful, listening to Sherlock, seeing the shadow of his movement from the light spilling out from under the door.

John drifted for a moment, sighing.

With a jolt, John realized exactly why it was that Sherlock was being so careful not to touch him. John's eyes snapped open in the darkness. He saw it all again in glorious Technicolor in the way that shameful memories always seemed to creep back in that moment right before sleep.

Before Moran had... taken him, he and Sherlock had fought. Horribly. Partially from being cooped up together with very little to do, partially from John finding out about the drugs. And the... the other thing. John had been so furious, so utterly insane with rage that he had not bothered to check his words, bitter resentment spewing from his mouth with no filter.

John had called him weak. Pathetic.

Sherlock had actually flinched, each insult hitting him like a slap.

Sherlock's face had crumpled for a moment, and like a predator going in for the kill, John had hissed his final, jeering words, throwing Sherlock's hand from his wrist so violently that Sherlock had stumbled, shocked. "You don't you touch me, Sherlock. Just. Don't. Don't fucking touch me, you twisted little _fuck_."

Then they were ambushed. Kidnapped by Moran. Yet with everything that had happened, Sherlock had not forgotten, and had done his absolute best to comply with John's directive.

God, he felt sick.

He heard the loo flush and the sound of running water. John waited until the snap of the light before he spoke.

"Don't even think about staying up all bloody night." John felt the guilt swim in his stomach as he spoke, keeping his voice low. "Please, Sherlock. Lie down."

John heard Sherlock's shocked breath and waited. What did the idiot think he was going to do, sleep in a chair? Not bloody likely. It wasn't like they hadn't shared a bed before. John bit his lip, remembering how their limbs had tangled together on the small bed. As furious as he had been, John hadn't let Sherlock sleep in a chair before , either.

"I probably won't sleep."

John had his own doubts about that, but was willing to keep them behind his teeth for now. He stayed silent, waiting.

The sound of the sheets being pulled back made John smile in the darkness, relieved. He felt the mattress dip under Sherlock's weight and he carefully allowed himself to relax. It was almost painfully awkward in the dark room as they both listened to the other breathe. Finally, John couldn't take it anymore and reached out blindly, his hand brushing Sherlock's arm before he slid his fingers down to cover Sherlock's.

Sherlock's gasp was as loud as a gunshot, and made John's gut clench with guilt. John squeezed Sherlock's hand, and Sherlock squeezed back, almost too tightly for a moment before he made himself relax.

They held hands, connected in the too-dark room until much-needed sleep took them both.

_The sound was terrible. A hideously wet, unspeakably _wrong_ sound of a too-ripe fruit splatting against a hard surface amplified into agony plus heartbreak._

_He finally made it to the familiar, broken shape on the cold, damp concrete, collapsing next to Sherlock as though John were a puppet whose strings had been cut. He could see the blood staining the pavement from his crushed skull. It was still warm as he knelt in it, staring at the pale glimpse of Sherlock's face._

_Someone was screaming as though they were being murdered, their voice cracking from the weight of their pain. If hopelessness had a sound, it would be this serrated, shredded scream._

_John reached out a shaking hand to Sherlock's cheek, turning his face so that John could stare down at him. He had to. Had to check because no, this wasn't Sherlock it couldn't be real please god fucking _no_no_no_-_

_Sherlock's face _rippled_, changing from Sherlock's familiar angular features to something else, melting and reforming like so much wax until Moriarty leered up at him, pursing his lips in a kiss as John scrambled back, slipping in the blood. There was so much, too much blood, no not Sherlock please-_

_"No!"_

_"John..." Moriarty's voice changed, slid into the distorted, mechanical voice that Moran used, and John was back there on the table, feeling his shoulder separate and oh. Oh, it hurt so much, so very badly but he couldn't move as Moriarty licked his lips then slid back to Sherlock cold grin, to Moran dark intensity as he pulled every sound of pain from John's throat and back to Sherlock, slowly pushing himself up and wiping the bits of bone smearing the blood no too much. It was so much bl-_

_"JOHN!"_

"Sherlock! No!_ NO_!"

Pain hit John like a punch, causing his body to arch against the mattress. His shoulder, his leg, his stomach all burned. John felt like he was on fire with the pain. He came awake at once with a gasp, aware that he had been sobbing in his sleep. Sherlock was pressed against him, desperately trying to help, his shaking hands brushing from John's shoulders, to his cheeks. Sherlock must have turned on the lamp, because all at once John realized that he could see, that he wasn't lost in the darkness, wasn't alone. John gasped, pressing his forehead into Sherlock's as he tried to remember what it felt like to breathe normally.

Sherlock's eyes were wide with shock, staring at him with such guilt that John pressed his lips to Sherlock's with a desperate need, just to make it go away. Sherlock made a small, hurt sound as John kissed him, the taste of salt and mint mingling together with the taste of Sherlock before _melting_ against him, kissing John like he couldn't quite keep himself from stopping.

John gripped one of Sherlock's bony shoulders, his other hand clenching in the curls at Sherlock's neck. It was quickly apparent that Sherlock had no idea what he was doing, too much saliva and tongue in the frantic kiss, their noses bumping together twice before John took over. He jerked once at Sherlock's hair, moving his head where he needed it, licking into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock shuddered against him, relaxing further into John's body from where he half-lay in a sprawl over him, before jerking back so abruptly that John was left gasping, blinking up at Sherlock in shock.

"No! This is... you're not..." Sherlock trailed off, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, looking both terribly hopeful and agonizingly guilty at the same time.

_Oh._

Idiot.

"You idiot." Sherlock actually blinked at John's words, offended. "How someone so utterly brilliant can..." John trailed off, carefully reaching out to cup Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock became very still, as though he were afraid that John would stop if he moved.

"But. You were dreaming and..."

"-And I need you. Look at me, Sherlock. Do you-"John faltered, overwhelmed for a moment. "Do you want me?"

John watched as Sherlock's eyes slowly drifted shut as he nodded. John tightened his fingers and Sherlock met him halfway, their lips meeting in a chaste kiss. He couldn't help the small kiss on the tiny plaster on Sherlock's cheekbone, the mark that John had put there in his blind panic. He pulled back, kissing Sherlock's trembling lips again. When John traced the seam of Sherlock's lips with the tip of his tongue, Sherlock collapsed forward for just an instant, stopping just before he would have aggravated John's injuries.

John slid his hand down Sherlock's back, kissing him harder as Sherlock shivered at the way his fingernails scratched lightly down Sherlock's spine, before slipping into the loose pyjama trousers and cupping the warm heat of Sherlock's arse.

"_Oh_."

Sherlock's moan rumbled up from his chest and John scraped at Sherlock's jaw with his teeth, searching out more of the helpless little sounds. God, he wanted this. The flavour of Sherlock's skin was addictive and John couldn't keep from Sherlock's mouth, kissing him deeply, desperate for more.

It was John's turn to moan when Sherlock tentatively splayed his hand over John's heartbeat, over the cotton of his t-shirt. John bit and Sherlock moaned again, low in his throat, losing anything resembling tentativeness as he moved his hand from John's chest to cup his cock, hard and throbbing, trapped in his pants. John couldn't help the way his hips bucked, or the gasp of "Sherlock" that fell from his lips.

Sherlock's grip tightened for a moment before tracing the shaft with his thumb and first finger, exploring its shape behind the quickly-dampening fabric. Sherlock pulled away from the kiss for a second to brush his lips over John's face and John couldn't help the shiver that wracked his body when he realized that Sherlock was licking up his tears. "I have to touch you-please-can-I?" Sherlock's whisper was loud in the quiet room, the words falling over themselves in his haste to get them out.

John just lifted his hips in answer, pressing his cock into the curl of Sherlock's hand. He pulled Sherlock's arse to him, grinding his unhurt thigh against Sherlock's prick. John saw Sherlock's mouth drop open in delighted shock at the friction before he was pawing at Sherlock's pyjamas, clumsy and lust-stupid. It only took a moment for John to wrap his hands around both of their cocks, rubbing them together in a desperate rhythm: the wet swipe of his thumb, the press against the vein on the underside, the slide of foreskin, rubbing together. Sherlock shuddered once before propping himself up on his hands, jerking his gaze from their cocks to John's face before shutting his eyes with a low groan.

John wanted to watch Sherlock fall apart over him, and he didn't look too far from it, biting his lip and shaking as he thrust into John's hands. God his shoulder was fucking throbbing in agony, but he couldn't stop, couldn't drag his gaze away from Sherlock's stunned face as his mouth dropped open in an almost perfect O, his eyes fluttering open and piercing John with their blue-green gaze. John felt the first pulse of thick come and jerked his hand faster, tightening slightly as Sherlock shuddered and moaned above him, eyes locked on John's.

From one second to the next John, felt the burst of heat before he was coming all over the both of them, thrusting helplessly up into his own grip.

Sherlock seemed frozen above him, as though he wasn't quite sure what to do. John couldn't help his smile as Sherlock ducked his head, brushing his lips over John's. John arched his neck to kiss him back, wiping his hand against his t-shirt before cupping the back of Sherlock's head, tangling his fingers in the curls, riding the endorphins.

"All right then?"

Sherlock just nodded, pulling away for a moment to strip himself of his pyjamas, hands gentle as he helped John take off his shirt and pants, then curling up against John's side, all without speaking. John wasn't too worried about Sherlock's silence. Sherlock always took a little time to process new data.

John wanted to make a joke about managing to shut the great git up at last, but was too busy pushing his fingers into Sherlock's, hair, petting him as their heartbeats slowed. Sherlock made a completely contented murmur of sound, shifting just slightly further into John's body. John was almost asleep before he heard it, the barest whisper of the three little words mouthed against his unhurt shoulder.

John's eyes popped open in the darkness and even as shattered as he was, it was a long time before he could go back to sleep.

TBC!

**Two chapters left. Thanks for sticking with me!**


	6. Chapter 6

Thank you to yeahyeahyep, thatworldinverted and jlm121 for all of the everythings. Long chapter is long.

**-Before-**

"Your brother is an utter twat."

I snorted, glad that my face was turned away from John on the small bed. The feeling of elation was like a hit of cocaine, electrifying every single one of my nerves. I had a tremendously difficult time keeping my body from reacting.

John had not spoken to me in four days and twelve hours, almost to the second. Six-thousand eighty minutes. Three-hundred, eighty-eight thousand, eight-hundred seconds.

I closed my eyes, biting my lip.

"Obvious."

It was John's turn to snort.

I attempted to ignore the sudden surge of dopamine that swirled around my bloodstream at John's small sound of amusement. I was utterly unsuccessful. Weak starlight shone onto the bottom half of John's strong chin, leaving most of his face in shadow. John deigning to acknowledge me after so long was like the first drag on a cigarette after a week of abstaining- an utter shock to the system.

There was only one window in the small room. The small flat was clearly a converted loft space that had seen better times. It was a small step up from a bedsit in that there was a tiny toilet and microscopic shower behind a Japanese screen in the corner, but my bastard of an elder brother had not exactly gone out of his way to spare the Commonwealth's taxpayers the expense of providing another safe house for John and myself. There were exactly two steps from my side of the bed -and wasn't that curious; the fact that I had an actual _side_ when John and I had never shared a bed before; a small slice of domesticity that was almost painfully intimate after so many months of only seeing John through a computer screen- and the loo.

Two hotplates, a sink, and a tiny fridge exemplified the extent of the kitchen, and that was a mere four paces from the edge of John's side of the bed. There was a small table, but for some reason Mycroft had specified that there were no chairs. There was no room for them anyway. As it was, John had an uncomfortable squeeze from the corner of our bed and the corner of the small table if he wished to go out to the door.

Mycroft had refused to allow either of us the freedom to leave the tiny little flat. He had seen that there were some amenities, such as a change of clothes for the both of us. We had two mugs, some silverware, and two plates. There was one kettle (imagining John's fury at being denied tea had been rather amusing) and plenty of sugar and milk for tea.

Curiously though, food was delivered regularly.

John, after waking up, had stormed to the door, only to be deterred by several of my brother's minions. They had standing orders to subdue either John or myself should either one of us leave the flat for any reason. I had seen agent Moss twice. Once with a gargantuan with whom I had no wish to tangle. The others were hardly worth mentioning. It didn't matter. As I had no desire to leave John's presence, their presence was a non-issue for me. John however, had reacted predictably.

The first day, John's belligerence was expected. He was furious with me. John refused to speak though, and I found my desire to provoke a conversation that would no doubt be infused with untoward levels of sentiment to be less than rampant. John had tended to the wound on my forehead with fingers that barely brushed against my skin, yet for all that were almost trembling with suppressed rage.

He refused to look me in the face.

To my absolute and complete shock, I found that I could not delete the … uncomfortable reaction from seeing John this way, and spent rather a lot of time wallowing on my side of the bed, pathetically trying not to make too much noise.

The third day I did everything in my rather extensive repertoire to annoy John into acknowledging my presence. When I attempted to provoke him into hitting me (most people wanted to hit me after all; one could only assume that it was cathartic in some way), John's eyes had flashed with something so dark that I closed my mouth up mid-syllable, almost biting my tongue in my haste to cease speaking _immediately_.

He didn't make food for me. Nor would he make tea. Any attempts to make him food were ignored, to the extent that John would actually _dump out the perfectly good tea_ before making himself his own cuppa.

It was infuriating.

This morning, I had attempted to push John into speaking by making my own frustration with this intolerable situation audible. My own anger brought my damnable brother into the mix. He didn't deign to speak, but the look on his face_ – so childish, Sherlock, really- _had me biting back my own vitriol and assuming my natural thinking pose, taking both of the pillows so that my head would be propped up for the most efficient amount of blood flow to my brain.

John had simply refused to come to bed until I gave him back a pillow. All in all it was an overwhelmingly unsuccessful endeavour.

Most troublingly, was that now I had found that I had a viable excuse to watch John all that I wanted, I had no desire to do so. I found that I wished to question Irene on the motives behind my recent sexual proclivities.

I had no outlet to research. Mycroft had refused to give me my laptop. The rather ratty knapsack had been found and my cell phone (the one glimpse John had of the cracked screen had caused a look had to cross his face that had actually made something in my oesophagus hurt, before John had about-faced immediately and crossed to the loo- taking the only privacy that this safe "house" afforded either one of us) had also been confiscated by our jailers.

It wasn't like I could ask John. I could well imagine how_ that_ conversation would go.

My Mind Palace had been surprisingly unhelpful. I understood that fetishizing voyeurism was frowned upon in most sexual constructs. Irene had seemed rather blasé on the subject, at complete odds with my brother's obvious disapproval. The idea of ever seeing anyone other John was utterly repugnant. Yet, without his permission (true, he had given up on keeping Mycroft's monitoring equipment out of the flat during our first month as flatmates), but not having John's _explicit _permission for what I wished to do, my actions were at best somewhat alarmingly creepy, and at worst … illegal.

I was not accustomed to such an overwhelming feeling of guilt. Well, that was not entirely true. Rather, John was the only person for whom I would ever acknowledge any sentiment such as guilt. My brother had once told me that caring was not an advantage, and now more than ever did his words bring home how very right he was.

Not that I would ever tell him that. Git.

I had barely registered that John had climbed into the bed beside me, carefully lying so that no part of his body touched mine before he spoke, the insult to my brother after so many hours of deafening silence bringing a delighted grin to my face.

John shifted slightly. I could see in the dim amount of light that he was lying with his hands fisted loosely over his stomach.

Feeling greatly daring, I shifted so that my shoulder brushed John's arm. His exhale was loud and shaky and caused things low in my body to tighten.

"I'm sorry. I am so very sorry, John." I bit my lip in the dark. Had I been in less control of my transport, I would have winced at the utterly pathetic way I blurted my apology.

The silence was painfully loud. There was very little street noise from our attic flat, and since we had no neighbours, every inhale and exhale sounded like the crash of a symphony. "You're sorry." John repeated my words with no verbal inflection to the syllables. My throat went strangely tight. I found that I had the simultaneous urge to confess every transgression since I had set my mad plan into motion and to bite my tongue to keep myself from speaking.

I nodded, then rolled my eyes in the dark at my own stupidity. "Yes."

John made a soft sound, something between a grunt and a snort. "Well. How nice for you, Sherlock."

The tightness in my throat increased, panic lighting up my synapses as John moved off of the bed. My hand whipped out and closed around his bicep before I quite realized what I was doing.

"I'm just going for a shower. Getting a bit wiffy." John's voice had finally lost that strange, furious flatness. He almost sounded... fond. Still, it took two tries before I could make my fingers unclench from his body. My hand fell onto the mattress like some dead thing, and I frantically attempted to order my thoughts, deleting and rearranging explanations and apologies with some semblance of coherence. I could not marshal my thoughts into what I _could _say, what I _wanted _to say, and what John needed to hear without losing the tentative peace. I knew that I could do it. It was simply a matter of confessing some of my misdeeds with enough truth to them so that John would feel predictably protective. His own sentiment would do the rest.

With the proper formula of truth and manipulation, John would forgive me before breakfast.

The hiss and clank of the pipes barely registered, but the short yip of surprise from the frigid water caused me to smirk. I turned my head without thinking, only to freeze completely.

The moonlight had shifted, slanting in through the small window and across the top of the bed. John had slung his towel over the small Japanese screen, and it had moved just enough that I could see a glimpse of John's naked body as he showered.

My air left my lungs with a feeling not unlike a punch to the diaphragm. I heard myself make a strangled, panicked sound.

"Was there something?"

Oh _God._ It did not matter that I could only see a small slice of John's back, the curve of one buttock. I had seen the rest of his body, and my mind had no problems whatsoever filling in any blanks. Panic and arousal caused me to screw my eyes shut, biting the inside of my cheek to keep the whimper in my throat where it belonged.

I only had to look. John wasn't fussed about privacy; he'd been a soldier for years before I had met him. Public showers were common.

It was very unlikely that I was the first man to catch a glimpse of John naked in the sh-

My eyes popped open, then narrowed. I could feel the pull of wanting to look, but forced myself to sit up and turn away from the sounds of water sluicing down on John's shoulders, his spine, down to his-

Oh, _Christ. _

"Sherlock?"

I carefully rolled over to John's side of the bed, standing and searching at the very bottom for my trainers, flung haphazardly into my rucksack once I deduced that I would be going nowhere for a very long time.

"Oh fine." I cleared my throat, forcing my voice into some nonchalance. "Just yawning."

Normally the small lie would not have bothered me. Now though, it grated on my already raw nerves.

I had been holding the small pack of fags in reserve to really ensure that John lost his temper with me, but right now I just needed a bloody cigarette. The window went up with a surprisingly silent sound, and I was out and balanced on the ledge before I had thought about it, the wind from the cool evening whipping my hair into a fury. I bit down on the small pack, unable to take my hands from the top ledge. As I had deduced, there was a small slope to the roof, and it took very little to swing myself up and over, sitting on the flattish surface with my forearms resting on my knees. There was not much room. Had I attempted to stretch the length of my body, either my neck or my knees would dangle off the slope of the roof.

I had just taken a deep drag before I heard a muffled shout from our room.

_Shit._

"Sherlock!"

Oh bugger. "Yes, John." I didn't need to force myself into meekness. I inhaled shakily, and indeed seconds later, John's hands appeared on the same ledge. I shifted my arse over, forcing my gaze to the tarred surface of the roof.

"You... you..." John was almost incoherent with rage. He was much less graceful than myself, plodding into my leg and scrambling up onto the roof's surface with a muffled curse.

I chanced a glance up at him and immediately forced my gaze back down. Little droplets of water still decorated his neck, chest, and shoulders. The moonlight fairly glinted on the proof that John hadn't bothered to dry off when he discovered that I wasn't in the room, throwing on his trackies and scrambling out after me.

"It." I stopped, cleared my throat. Forced myself to inhale, tremendously grateful that John had no talents at observation, for surely the way my hand shook screamed at my inner turmoil. I tried again, casting about desperately for something to say. "It occurs to me that, given recent events, fleeing to the roof was not, perhaps, my most well-thought out idea."

"No shit, Sherlock. You- you... complete fucking_ idiot_." John's hand gripped my upper thigh. He quite possibly had no inkling of how torturous his grip was, although if he moved even the slightest bit to the left he would have a rather rude shock. It was humiliating that I had no control over my own body. My transport had failed me; no, my _control _over my transport had failed me. I did not know if it was John, or the unexpected glimpse of him during such a private moment, or my own reaction and imagination that caused me to harden so abruptly, but I was finding it hard to think with the blood that should be in my brain so quickly diverted. I could feel the heat from John's body, and it was absolutely _agonizing_ to have him so close to me.

Slowly, John released his panicked grip on my upper thigh. I smoked in silence, enjoying both the nicotine rush and the heady rush of norepinephrine and testosteronewreaking havoc with my system.

John sighed and stretched slightly on the roof, looking up at the sky.

"Where are we, do you suppose?"

I had no idea. A city, obviously, but not one that I readily recognized. My mind was in such a whirl that we could have been sitting on the roof of Mrs. Hudson's building and I wouldn't have noticed. The small, intense moment when John first saw me in Mycroft's guest bedroom wouldn't leave the foreroom of my Mind Palace. The heat from his body, the sharp smell of sandalwood from the shampoo he had just used gave the quiet night a strange intensity that I was not sure if I wanted to break.

A confession? An apology? An accusation?

I did not know.

"Sherlock?"

I almost jumped at the sound of my name. "I am unsure. I have not been able to hear any colloquialisms of the native speakers. Mycroft's minions have kept the flat utterly bare of even a hint of where we are. We could be anywhere. Minsk. Middlesex. Mars."

"Mars?"

If this had been anyone else, I would have mocked them ceaselessly for the pathetically obvious way I had included the planet's name, purely to remind John of how much he had teased me about not knowing trivial planetary information. I cast a quick glance down at the street. We were only about four storeys up, which did not account for the small, dizzy spurt of breathlessness in my chest after glimpsing the small grin on John's face. My pulse increased at the tiny acknowledgement that I had indeed amused John, if only for a minute.

"Yes, Mars." I waved my hand around vaguely at the starlit sky.

John shifted slightly, closer to me on the small space. I tried not to watch the small trickles of water from his hair as they played over his skin and failed completely.

The silence stretched. It didn't take someone with my brilliance to deduce that John was still upset with me. Still, he was talking, albeit haltingly, and I had made him smile. He hadn't shouted at me _too _much, and the nicotine was a godsend, soothing my shattered nerves.

Neither of us was surprised when one of the minions popped his head out of the window. He looked vaguely familiar. He had been one of the agents to pick me up at the airport.

"You shouldn't be up here. Snipers, you know. Best get back to where you're all nice and safe, Mr. Holmes. Captain."

I blinked then huffed out an impatient breath. Snipers. Ri_diculous_. Mycroft would have cleared the area in every direction.

John's shoulders straightened at the title and he nodded. "It's Doctor, actually. Haven't been a Captain in a while now."

The agent said something innocuously boring and popped back into the flat. I was too distracted by John's calloused fingers on my shoulder. I gasped and dropped the cigarette. My reflexes were dormant as I tried to catch it, hissing when it burnt my thigh before falling onto the roof. Humiliating. I attempted to grab it before it pitched over the roof and managed to burn my finger in the process.

John was laughing again, hard enough that his grip tightened on my shoulder so that he could keep his balance. "Go." He managed to wheeze and feeling my face burning, I was more than pleased to pop back down off the roof and into the loft window.

The nameless drone ignored me, unpacking something from the shops and setting it up on the table. I had to flop down onto my spot onto the mattress before John could swing in, and I would be lying if I didn't say that I stared at him, at the strength in his arms, muscles bulging just enough as he swung his weight into the small window. He was much more graceful than I. I do not know why that surprised me.

I frowned at the burn on my hand, and then poked at it. Which was fairly stupid, but it did cause John to huff in exasperation and sit down beside me on the mattress. I jerked my hand from his touch when John's fingers closed around mine, flustered.

"Don't be such a baby. Give it here." John's fingers grabbed my wrist and he tilted my hand in the poor light so that he could look at it.

"Oi!"

We both looked at the agent. I'm quite certain the look on my face was less than friendly, and I quickly schooled my features into some semblance of blankness before John could see. I didn't miss the wink the agent sent at John, nor the way he tossed the first aid kit at us, causing John to let go of me in order to catch it. I certainly didn't miss the bright smile on John's face.

I did _not_ care for the way John smiled his thanks, a genuine, full-on smile at someone else.

"It _hurts_." John's attention was back on me, where it belonged. I hissed in pain (only a little embellished- anymore and John would know) and some of the light left John's face as he opened the kit for some burn cream. I suppose that someone else might feel guilt at the small manipulation, but if I could have glared over John's head without him seeing me, I would have done. John's smiles were _mine_. It was hard not to gloat when the door shut, leaving the two of us alone once again.

I watched John stroke the burn cream over the small blister and only huffed a little at the picture of the cartoon dog on the plaster.

"Scooby-Doo?"

"Mycroft believes himself to be amusing." For some reason this caused John to snort in laughter. We were so close that I felt the puff of air against my cheek, and I could not help the way my gaze darted up to John's. Held.

My gaze flicked down to John's lips, then jumped guiltily back up to John's eyes. My heart rate jumped crazily when I saw the darkness there. I moved a breath closer, pulled towards John's gravity like the moon to the Earth. Or the Earth to the moon. Whatever. Deleted as unimportant. John's grip became almost painful on my wrist, and still he didn't move towards me.

Perhaps I was not being obvious enough. John's intelligence was several steps above the average idiot's, but he could still be terrifically stupid at times. My heart was beating so loudly in my chest I was almost shocked that John could not hear it. I moved a fraction of an inch forward. Brushed my lips against John's, my eyes closing in shock as data flooded my brain. He was wonderfully warm. Hair still slightly damp from his shower. Lips chapped, strong. In a remembered flash of sensation I saw John with his hand on the nameless stranger's wrist, pressing him tightly to the wall as he-

John jerked away from me, dropping my wrist as though burned.

There was a beat of silence where my eyes popped open in shock. No. He wasn't meant to move _away_, he was-

"No. _No_, Sherlock."

Oh.

"Of course." Even with my stellar acting skills, I was amazed that my voice was so even, given the waves of humiliation and rejection that were rolling through me. I settled back on the bed, assuming my most common thinking position. Laughable, really. I couldn't think. My mind was curiously blank from cognizant thought, but John did not know this. Long habit of being lost in my Mind Palace set a precedent for me to ignore John's agitated pacing.

"Sherlock- I didn't mean..." John trailed off. I could picture him behind my closed eyelids, running a frustrated hand through his hair as he attempted to gather his thoughts. "Oh, bugger. Sherlock? _Sherlock_?"

A child could have been able to deduce the John was going to reach out to me, and I was able to keep my body relaxed, continuing to ignore him, while simultaneously being almost painfully aware of every breath that he took.

John cursed under his breath. I heard him walk the few steps to the light switch and turn it off. Having nowhere else to go, John crawled under the blankets next to me.

Rejection wasn't new. Being rejected by someone who mattered this much, was. Victor had been simple. I had been curious about sex, and Victor had been terribly shy. I had not formed the emotional attachment that I had with John. Victor and I had manually stimulated one another, and I had been curious enough to attempt fellatio, but had never seen much point in kissing. Victor had tried, and I had ducked away, appalled, the names of each bacteria found in the human mouth rattling from my mouth before I could stop myself.

Victor had distanced himself not long after.

"Sherlock?" A tentative hand on my shoulder.

Delete. I could only delete this. John did not want me in that way. Why would he? It was stupid, _stupid _to have tried. To have attempted to.

"You're not fooling me, you know." The mattress dipped. "Open your eyes and look at me, Sherlock."

I refused, actually tightening my lids like a child, hoping the monsters under the bed weren't real.

"You cannot _do_ that, Sherlock. It's dishonest. Yes, I am furious at you. I will likely be furious at you for a long time. You throwing a wobbly to get me to react to you didn't work, and neither will kissing me."

John flopped back onto the mattress and I opened my eyes in the darkness, shocked. John thought that I-

"I think that I put some of it together. You jum-" John cut off speaking with a strangled noise. I was still too frozen to move. "Your fall, the bicyclist. Molly is a terrible actress, by the way. At first I thought she was avoiding me because of awkwardness, but I know what guilt looks like, Sherlock. I'm not an idiot."

No. Yes, he was. But not about that. John knew people the way I could deduce the minutiae of their sad, pathetic lives. His instant empathy, even when he chose not to act on it had fascinated me from the beginning.

"So I asked myself, what on earth would Molly Hooper have to feel guilty about? So I did some investigating on my own. I'm afraid poor Mike thought me more than a bit mad when I insisted on seeing your body. Molly said that it had already been released to Mycroft. Odd. No inquest. No hearing. You were thought to have killed yourself, Sherlock. Why was there no hearing? No _record_ of a hearing? How had the body been released to the family so quickly? Certainly, it was possible that Mycroft had been pulling strings like the puppet master he is, but."

John stopped abruptly, and I found myself listening acutely, almost straining to hear his soft voice as he spoke in the darkness.

"The bicyclist. The fact that Moriarty had ate his gun. Molly. I was convinced, Sherlock. _Convinced_ that you had done it- that you had pulled off a magic trick. But, you didn't return. I... begged you to come back. You are brilliant, and if anyone could do it, you could."

Hearing John calling me brilliant had the same effect as always. Some of the rolling chasm of humiliation subsided, allowing for the small spurt of warmth, squirming hopefully in my chest.

John sighed. "But you didn't. You didn't come back."

The silence was appallingly loud, echoing through my brain as though I had shouted in an empty, cavernous room.

"I." I shut my mouth with a click of teeth. Did I confess that I hadn't been trying to kiss him out of his fury? Then he'd know that I... that I wanted... no. I wouldn't risk it.

John snorted. "You giant faker. I knew it."

"I am... sorry, John." Surely an apology wouldn't go amiss. To my shock, John's fingers wrapped around my wrist again, careful of my burnt finger. For the first time since our incarceration, it was ... nice to feel him next to me. I could not put a name to the emotion he was giving off, but it wasn't anger, or fury, and that was tremendously pleasant.

I matched my breathing to John's in the darkness, still unsure of what to say. What to tell him? John had accused me of being dishonest, and I found that I was disgusted with myself. I listened as John fell asleep, listened to his deep, even breathing. His grip around my wrist loosened as he slept, and I bit my lip, easing out of the bed. I stripped and dressed into my pyjama trousers, easing myself back into the bed under the covers. Normally, I could keep myself awake for hours by concentrating my thinking. Now though, I welcomed the oblivion of sleep, knowing that for a short while at least I wouldn't have to feel such guilt and disgust with myself.

Wakefulness came slowly.

I was warm. Almost too warm. I heard the heartbeat under my ear increase before John eased slowly away. My sleepy mind snapped to completely awake in an instant when I registered that I was hard, throbbing against John's thigh, having wrapped myself around him in my sleep.

Oh _god._ Images flew behind my eyes, images of John's sadness, of John touching himself, of John's buttocks as he thrust, his neck bent as though lost in the carnality of what he was doing. I was horribly aware that I had left a damp spot against my pyjama trousers, and that they would hide nothing- not that there was anything to hide; not even John could miss this. John moved again from under me, and between one breath and another I had run from the warm cocoon of blankets, hiding behind the screen. Hiding from John.

I refused to touch myself with John knowing, just steps away. The water was frigid and I welcomed it, shivering as my body forgot John's heat. I could only hide so long without risking hypothermia. John had left my clothes on the screen and I dressed as quickly as I could.

John looked up from his tea when I left the bathroom and I couldn't help the flood of embarrassment that stained my cheeks at the look on his face. Oh this was intolerable.

I tilted up my chin and took a belligerent sip of tea. John laughed outright when I immediately burnt my tongue.

"You know that is perfectly normal."

It was? Normal? To molest your flatmate's thigh in his sleep? There was more than one reason I had never aspired for normality. I took another sip of my tea, refusing to look at John.

"So. Er. I didn't realize that you..."

"Had a penis? Tremendously unobservant of you, John."

John choked, wheezing for a moment as he inhaled his tea.

I rolled my eyes. "I do, in fact possess a sexuality." If he only knew. "I am not a virgin, depending of course on your definition of virginity. I simply choose not to act on my baser instincts is all." I stole a look up at him from under my eyelashes.

John licked his lips, and I almost dropped my mug of tea.

"Uh. Yes. Of course. I just didn't think that you... married to your work, you know?"

I thought the fact that I managed to bite back the fact that I had been out of work for quite a while was exceedingly well done of me.

John rummaged in the bag, clearly looking for a distraction and found a coffee cake. My stomach gave an obedient gurgle and John's smile was fond as he looked at me. We ate in companionable silence, foregoing our meagre supply of plates as we ate over the box.

I was pleasantly full of tea and sweet pastry, John wasn't ignoring me, and he hadn't punched me for putting him in two very awkward positions in a very small amount of time. I didn't realize until much, much later that John had waited for just the right moment, manipulating me as much as I ever had manipulated him. The question had been simple enough:

"How did you know to call me?"

And I answered, without thinking of the repercussions of my answer.

"I was watching."

John pounced on the words, all at once the cold, purposeful man who had killed Jefferson Hope without hesitating; without losing a night of sleep. This was very much Captain John Watson, and I was flummoxed at the change in him.

"Were you?" John's voice was cold.

I nodded slowly, focused on the way John's lips tightened. "Yes."

"Watch me a lot, did you?"

_Shit._ Panic. I closed my eyes, feeling as though I would vomit. John knew. How could he know? How could he possibly...?

Mycroft.

"I. I did. Yes."

John's laugh was grating to my already painfully stretched nerves. "You sick _fuck_."

I flinched as though he had punched me. He had known. He had known this whole time and said nothing. No wonder he'd been so furious. No wonder he'd stopped my feeble attempt at kissing him. John was disgusted with me, rightfully, _hatefully_ disgusted with me. I had gone so far into a Bit Not Good that there would be no respite; no recovering John's trust.

"Hours. Mycroft said that you watched me constantly, for hours, Sherlock. Do you know how pathetic that is? You lord above everyone with how brilliant you are- how aloof you are, yeah? But you're not, Sherlock. Content just to fuck off into the sunset and leave little John Watson, poor, sad..." John's words were like knives digging into my heart. "Do you think that I'm that weak? That I need minding like some... some child? I. Am. Not. Weak! _You're _weak to think-" John broke off mid tirade. He pinched his forehead, looking equally frustrated and appalled at himself. "I know that you don't understand things the same way that normal people do-" I flinched again but John hardly seemed to notice. "-but surely even you can see how- _God!_" John stopped himself from talking, picking up his mug with shaking fingers. The cheap ceramic clinked against his teeth.

I carefully set down my own mug and tried to step away. Before I could, John grabbed my bicep, pulling me forward, off-balance, so that I crashed into his smaller, sturdier body. Dimly I heard the mug hit the floor, exploding like a small bomb. Within one blink and the next, John had crowded me up against the wall near the door. I was too dumb to react, shocked into immobility by the suddenness of his actions.

I almost collapsed when I felt his mouth on my neck, felt his hand on my throat. John kissed me like he wanted to punish, forcing his tongue into my mouth and tasting all of me, and it was good. So very,very good. Perfect. He kicked my legs apart so that I was even further off-balance, angling his hip so that he was pressing against my rapidly-hardening cock. I moaned, a sound lost in John's forceful kiss. I started to touch his shoulders, but before my hands had fully settled on his body, John twisted my hands up against the wall, holding them with a grip like iron. For a smaller man, his hands were quite strong.

"You watched me get off with that bloke. You let Mycroft _spy_ on me, then watched me yourself. Did you like it? You did, of course you did. Knowing that I was thinking of you whenever I touched myself, probably loving that I cried over you, dreamed about you."

Wait- no. That wasn't...

John's hand cupped me through my jeans, causing me to cry out in shock and want, mind shuddering to a complete halt.

John's hand left my prick, up my stomach under my shirt. I knew that he could feel my heart beating, and I twisted in his grip, desperate for his mouth. I bent down to kiss him. I knew that I didn't have the talent for it that John did- I almost managed to knock myself out when I didn't tilt my head enough- and John's low laugh did nothing to calm the way I was rocking my hips, wanting his hand back on me again. I was desperate. Needy. _Stupid _with want of the man in front of me.

John's hand rose higher, scraping his finger over my nipple and I couldn't help my gasp of his name. John pulled back and smirked up at me, then frowned as his fingers moved again. Not over my body this time but the pocket of my shirt.

The pocket.

Oh _no._

John froze completely, staring at the small packet of powder in his hand. He took a step back.

I tried to speak, but couldn't get words past the blockage in my throat. I watched the emotions flicker across John's face. Shock. Fury. Disgust. Pain. Frantically, I pushed forward, trying again to kiss him. It was my turn to grab his wrist. I didn't even have time to blink before John had flipped me. I was so off-balance that I landed onto the table, sending it crashing to the floor under my weight.

"You... you disgust me." John threw the packet at me. It bounced off my arm onto the floor. I had landed hard enough that it forced the breath from my lungs and I still couldn't move, immobile in the face of John's fury. "Don't you touch me, Sherlock. Just. Don't. Don't fucking touch me, you twisted little_ fuck_. I'm done with this shit. _Never _touch me again, Sherlock."

And John, my careful, tediously protective best friend, jerked his gaze from where I lay sprawled on the ground in shock, forgetting completely why we had been trapped in this miniscule little flat and stormed out of the door, slamming it so hard behind him that the flimsy lock broke.

I had done it. I had finally found the thing that would cause John to leave me. Not faking my suicide and making him watch. Not confessing to watching John at all hours of the day and night. But the drugs? The drugs that I had purposefully kept on me? The proverbial straw that broke the camel's back; that was what broke John Watson's faith in me.

It took a few heartbeats before I could force my body into action, springing up and running down the stairs after him. I hit the street just in time to see the huge man behind John, intent implicit in the way he reached for him. I had just enough time to cry out a warning before there was a bright burst of agony from the back of my head.

Then nothing.

**-Now-**

John had only woken up with Sherlock once before, but this was as different from that time as night was to day. The last time (and had it only been a few days ago? Was that even bloody _possible_?) John had woken up panicked at the thought of Sherlock that close to him. He'd stupidly wanted to cling to his anger, had been disgusted and ... desperately turned on at the thought of Sherlock's attention on him. Had he really cared about John that much? To watch over him?

Mycroft had obviously felt that John should be aware of that fact- telling him in that plummy voice of his that yes, indeed, his younger brother had a few ... idiosyncrasies with which he felt John should be aware.

_Idiosyncrasies._ Mycroft was a complete and utter sod. He had deemed it best that Sherlock wake up in the tiny flat instead of in a hospital, and John had agreed that that would likely keep him safe if Sherlock couldn't work out where he was. Oh god, he'd been furious. But it wasn't until he'd been locked in that fucking box; choking on his own snot and tears that John had been able to be honest enough with himself to admit that... god._ Sherlock_.

And now he was here, curled up against John's body like he was part cat. John tilted his head and saw that the great, lanky git was sprawled against and on him, his head tilted awkwardly so that he could share John's pillow. Sherlock was snoring softly. There was even a tiny bubble of drool on the corner of his mouth that John _refused_ to admit was _ridiculously_ endearing. The ginger curls were weird enough that Sherlock didn't seem quite like himself, but the cheekbones were the same. John reached out a finger and touched the plaster on Sherlock's cheek softly, with the barest hint of a touch.

He'd shot Sherlock. Shot _at _him. He, the crack shot, had thank god- thank _god_ been so out of it that he'd missed his target. Sherlock could have been, _John _could have...

"Do stop thinking so loudly, John."

John jerked, then met Sherlock's raised eyebrow somewhat shamefacedly. He watched as Sherlock then made a horrible, scrunched face and scratched rather frantically at the dried semen on his stomach, looking utterly disgusted.

"Where are we?"

"Later. Ugh, this is. Good Christ, are we _cemented_ together?!" They both winced when Sherlock pulled away. Clearly, last night they had both been too knackered to clean up as thoroughly as John had thought they had.

"Not anymore."

"Shower. Come."

John didn't miss the fact that even as imperious as Sherlock was, he was careful with John's burn and his shoulder as he poked and prodded and huffed until John was standing under the shower with him, covered more in Sherlock's long fingers than soap suds.

"Will your burn-" Sherlock turned so that John's back was under the spray, holding him so that he wouldn't fall. It felt like utter bliss.

"It's fine. I'll have to wash it with saline later, but the bandage should stick through the shower and keep the soap off the wound."

The erstwhile nurse might have been terrible at reading John's chart (more likely she'd been distracted by the huge, bat-like, broody man in front of her and had made a very simple mistake) but she had packed and bandaged his burn extremely well, using high-grade gauze and tape so that he was as protected as possible.

Sherlock attempted to keep his touches clinical as he washed John, but John had no such compulsion. Having Sherlock tend to him was tremendously satisfying, and John fully intended to enjoy it while he could.

They were both half-hard by the time the shower ended, trading slow, drugging, lazy kisses whenever the mood struck one of them. Sherlock helped John to sit in the rather plush chair and briskly dried him off, frowning at the bruising around John's shoulder.

"Looks worse than it is. Some of that discolouration is from my scar."

Sherlock sniffed, as though affronted that John would need to point this out. John was then utterly astounded when Sherlock leaned forward to kiss the biggest bruise. It was such a sweet gesture that John couldn't breathe for a moment.

Before he could do anything, Sherlock had sprung up, shaking out his wet hair like a dog, and dressing himself in a t-shirt and jeans. The room that they were in was much bigger, and much, much more opulent than the microscopic flat that Mycroft had sent them to. John was perfectly content to sit there naked, and wait for Sherlock to fill him in on his plan. Surely Sherlock had a plan. Sherlock always had a plan.

"I am sure that you are wondering how I found you." Sherlock took a few gazelle strides into the kitchen- a proper kitchen this time, not a mere kitchenette- and began moving things around.

John rested his head on the chair. He hadn't been, exactly, but it would do for now. He was bloody exhausted, and he felt as though he were several paces behind Sherlock, and quickly losing sight of him. Well, he often felt this way, but sitting here, naked in a rather fine squashy chair while Sherlock fussed over him, John could deal.

"You might not be aware that Moran sent me a video of you."

John's eyes popped open. "Wait. Wait, you were kidnapped! He showed me you passed out on the floor!"

Sherlock froze for a moment, the look of guilt on his face so profound that John ached for him.

"I... was. I... escaped. You told me that..." Sherlock shifted his weight, looking very much like a child that had been caught out doing something naughty.

John held up a finger. Sherlock stopped mid-fidget. "If this conversation is going where I think it's going, then I think I'm going to need pants." It took John two tries to get up, and he could _feel _Sherlock wanting to help him into his boxers, but he managed, limping slightly as he collapsed back into the chair, settling in and looking expectantly at Sherlock. "Now. Yes. I've told you hundreds of times to escape if you ever had the chance. _Thousands_. You did the right thing."

"How can you say that? I just left you there!" Sherlock roared, slamming the pan onto the hob in his anger.

"Sherlock. If ever there is a human being capable of finding me when I am lost, you are that person. And that's exactly what you did, yeah? You _found me_. You couldn't have done that if you were still kidnapped. Idiot." John couldn't resist the insult, noting that Sherlock's lips twitched a little in answer. "So you escaped, then what?"

"Moran found me through my phone. I don't know how long he'd had my phone under surveillance."

Bullshit.

John could tell Sherlock was lying from all the way over on his side of the room. Sherlock knew exactly when Moran had taken his phone, but was refusing to tell John. No matter. John knew he could get it out of him later. "Hmm." John made a small agreeing sound, shutting his eyes again as Sherlock carefully didn't meet his gaze. It was silent for a minute, then Sherlock started clattering about in the kitchen again. John peeked through his eyelashes, somewhat astounded that Sherlock even knew how to _use_ a hob.

"He had been two steps ahead of me the whole time. The plan to have you-" Sherlock's voice faltered and cracked. "He knew that I was watching you. Clearly it was not the secret I thought it was." The small bit of self-deprecation made John snort. "He had been working with Mycroft enough to have a high enough clearance to certain files. He knew that I was alive, but needed to draw me out."

"And I was bait."

"And you were bait." Something crashed and Sherlock cursed under his breath. The smell of butter and onions made John's mouth water. "Very well-thought out bait. Mycroft believes that Moran had a plan in place to stop you from actually shooting yourself," Sherlock's voice wobbled slightly, but he continued, "and from there it was just a matter of monitoring me. He was on the detail in Mycroft's house. The bomb was a simple pipe bomb, not remotely up to Moriarty's standards, but well enough for the job, I suppose. There was a crack and the hiss of an egg hitting the butter and John wanted to moan.

"So how did you find me?"

"I'm getting to that." Sherlock sounded petulant at being asked to rush his explanation. John had almost forgotten how moody he got when he was forced to hasten his big reveal. "From there, it was child's play to figure out where we were. He just had to wait until he was up on rotation. Once he had a place, he could put the kidnapping into motion, and take you from me."

Sherlock paused and peeked at the bottom of the egg with a rubber spatula. Sherlock's voice was brittle when he spoke, almost too quietly to hear. "He sent me a video of you. To my phone. My phone was practically the first thing I insisted on having when I showed up on Mycroft's doorstep, and neither of us thought that it might be compromised. So, unforgivably stupid. The video showed you being..." Sherlock's voice broke for real this time, and John couldn't stand it. He was up and limping over to Sherlock as quickly as he could, wrapping his arms around Sherlock from behind. Sherlock stiffened, and John started to step back, forgetting for a moment that Sherlock did not care to be touched, but before he could, Sherlock took a step back so that he was closer to John, pulling his arms tighter around him. It wasn't sexual, but so very, utterly perfectly what John wanted to do, and what Sherlock _needed_ him to do, that neither one of them moved for a moment.

"Shit." The mutter made John smile and he let Sherlock go to rescue breakfast.

John took his time seating himself back in the chair. He understood that Sherlock would need a moment to compose himself, and didn't want to push.

"The video was very graphic of course. You were screaming in one of them, delirious in another. It was obvious that you were drugged. Confused. you kept slurring one thing over and over though. 'My house'."

"My house? But I don't have a house."

Sherlock favoured him with a look so disgusted that John shut up. It was such a Sherlock thing to do, that it heartened John in a weird way, to know that he hadn't ruined everything between them last night.

"Of course you don't. It took me no time at all to deduce that you weren't talking about your _house_, but were slurring '_Mycroft_' and '_warehouse_'."

John sat up so suddenly that his teeth clicked together. Now that Sherlock had said that, he could remember. The weird dream. The familiarity of the building, even though he had only been there once, and even then on the second night that he'd known Sherlock. Mycroft had played 'evil nemesis' in a dilapidated old warehouse, and somehow... Somehow...

"Yes. Moran found out the location. Well, more likely that Moriarty found out the location. This whole scheme _reeked_ of his incompetency." Sherlock wiped his hands on a towel and turned towards John, pulling the table closer to where he sat so that he could eat.

"Eat."

John blinked up at Sherlock, not at all certain that he wasn't in some parallel universe somewhere. John thought, rather wistfully, that this must be what Heaven felt like. Whatever force had Sherlock serving his every whim, making him breakfast was... no. That wasn't fair. John knew why Sherlock was taking care of him so well. Sherlock had whispered why into John's sweaty skin just a few hours ago, after all.

But ... now was not the time to deal with that.

The omelette was only a little rubbery, and the jam covered up the burnt spots on the toast rather well. John watched as Sherlock stole John's toast and nibbled at it, even though he loathed marmalade, eyes far away.

"Sowuffahn." Sherlock blinked and raised an eyebrow. John swallowed and tried again. "So now what?"

Sherlock's fingers twitched. Instead of replying, he crossed back to the kitchen and brought John his tea, settling it down carefully on John's table before flouncing over to the bed and flopping down on it in his customary sprawl. His quicksilver gaze landed on John, on John's bandage, before settling on the ratty knapsack and laptop that he had left by the door last evening. Sherlock stretched out an arm and pulled his phone from the drawer on the nightstand. John stopped mid-chew, noticing that the overdramatic twat popped the battery into its place with enough flair to make seasoned thespians roll their eyes. The jingle of his phone being turned on made the food in John's mouth taste like dust.

"So now...? We wait." Sherlock's smile was shark-like. "It don't anticipate that it will take all that long."

TBC!


End file.
